


Snowdrop

by loki_of_middle_earth



Category: Frankenstein (2004), Frankenstein (TV 2004), Frankenstein - Fandom, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein Hallmark Mini Series (2004)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Love, Love Letters, Love at First Sight, Secret love, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loki_of_middle_earth/pseuds/loki_of_middle_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After committing two murders and causing the execution of an innocent woman, Victor Frankenstein's creation haunts his creator's home waiting for the moment to exact his revenge. Torn between regret and revenge, the creature clutches at the last shred of his humanity. But in the forest surrounding Lake Geneva, near the home of Frankenstein, the creature spies a woman who immediately captivates him. Georgia Daniels might be able to teach the creature how to live and love, that is, if her past doesn't catch up to her and turn the intelligent creature into the monster we all know. *** Based on the Hallmark Mini Series "Frankenstein" staring Luke Goss as the creature***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did not list any warnings but there are some: There will be murder, some a bit graphic. I will warn at the beginning of those chapters. There will be a steamy scene later on. Also, plug in the soundtrack to "Pride and Prejudice" while you read the first few chapters. Thanks!

Chapter 1

The regret was instantaneous. The moment he felt the life go out of Henry Clerval he had felt no better. Fury coursed through him as did the horror of his deed. It could not be undone, but at the same time, he wondered if his regret now would be enough to prevent him from committing yet another crime. He released the body; the lifeless thud of Frankenstein's dearest friend did little to abate the shame he now felt welling up with his breast. But he had sent a message to his father. This is the price Frankenstein would pay for betraying his one request.

Bending over the fallen corpse, the creature further studied Henry. What could have propelled this man to convince his father to betray him? Had the wickedness of humanity been so strong that the entirety of its species was convinced that he should suffer? What living woman would take him? He needed one like himself. The creature's hands clenched up into fists; he meant to strike Henry, and wanted to until the face of this beloved friend of Victor's could no longer be recognized.

All he wanted was love, to give it freely and receive it freely. He was cursed in this life, cursed with unyielding loneliness and ugliness. Anger swelled up in him, pushing away the regret. Frankenstein had to know what he felt.

"If you will not give me a mate, father," he murmured to the darkness, traces of pain feathered his voice; "I will take yours." His promise was heavy and he felt the weight of it once the words fell from his lips. Summoning all of his rage and courage, he left the lifeless body of Henry Clerval behind in the forest and marched on.

The creature spent days wandering the forest, casually watching the Frankensteins mourning their friend. Weary and lonely, the creature also mourned his own loss, the loss of his red-haired mate. She was a beacon of beauty and hope for him, and she was gone. There was nothing he could do to stop the crying, his tears were like rivers bursting through old dams, unquenchable and relentless. Sobs rocked through his body as he clutched himself. What a woman she could have been! All he had desired was her. His one request to his damnable father.

When the creature's large form wasn't bent over his tear-stained books he would search the nearby forests for flowers and fruit to delight him. It was all he could do to taper his fury, all he could do to forget. And he did want to forget. The nameless creature wanted to forget the muffled cries of little William whom his great strength had not meant to crush. More than anything he wanted to forget the awful rejection of the De Laceys. He had meant no harm to them and he still didn't. If they came after him, whether good or ill, he would run to them like a dog at the sight of its master. Yes, he was no more than a dog, he mused sadly.

Searching the woods he found clusters of white flowers, small and sad, they seemed to call out to him. He picked a handful of them and pressed them close to his ashy nose. Refreshing was what they smelled like. It was like drinking from a spring, his very first drink in this cruel world. Examining the flowers he realized that the drooping beauties were snowdrops. Signs of good fortune, _how ironic_. But he could not toss them aside. A small part of him still hoped when he should not have, but he could not seem to lose it.

The creature cried in despair before smothering his face into the sad blossoms. He let their powers work through his veins as he took in each breath. Would his mate have liked the blooms? Would she have liked flowers? He begged the flowers with each quivering breath to set him free but their only answer to him was the wilting of their beauty. At this, he mourned. Was he banned from all beauty? No, he thought sadly, he would have to be delicate with it.

The fire kindling in his heart began to steadily dissipate as he sat on the forest floor reveling in the snowdrops. He could forget Victor. He could forget and simply love his flowers. He could have beauty and never lose it.

"Miss Daniels! Miss Daniels! Oh, where has she gone! It's not safe out here!" Cried a woman.

 

The creature straightened instantly. Like a frightened deer, he was ready to bolt. He listened closely for the woman to cry out again. North. She was north of him and only half a mile away. Blood drained from the creature's face, he was too close to them and he had not heard Miss Daniels reply. His father endowed him with suburb hearing and eyesight, gifts he was grateful for since they provided so much protection for him. As such, he presumed that Miss Daniels was much closer to him than he would have liked and that she must not have heard the woman calling her.

"Nettie, I will be back in a moment!" Cried Miss Daniels in response.

Dear God, thought the creature, she was only a yard or two from his refuge. Quickly, he discarded his bundle and left the flowers in a shriveled mess as he retreated to the denser part of the woods. How had he not heard the girl? He shuddered at the thought of her screams if she had found him. If she had not responded his ears would have been filled with her cries. So much for his hearing, he thought bitterly.

What compelled him to remain when he should have fled, he could not say. Curiosity perhaps? He wanted to know why Miss Daniels had wandered off and what she was doing alone. In truth, he wanted to see her; and he wanted to know what he would do when he saw her.

"Georgia! Please, come back!" Nettie was becoming desperate in her pleas.

"Can a lady not take time to herself to stretch and relieve herself!" Muttered Georgia Daniels to herself as she arrived at the creatures small piece of heaven.

Red, all he saw was red. But it was not from fury or rage or even hatred, although he did hate her the moment he saw her. Russet, wavy hair was pinned into a thick bun at the nape of her neck in the fashion of women in a time now past. Braids helped secure loose strands of hair. If raven locks replaced her russet color she would have mirrored the Grecian women the creature had seen drawings of. But Georgia was different from the women he had seen before. She wasn't poor or simple like Agatha and Justine, nor were her clothes dark. She was clad in yellow and green frock and cloaked in a patterned shawl.

He did hate her, he hated her terribly, he hated the air of her look, the nobility and wealth of it. He hated her strange accent which further ostracized her in his mind as a foreigner. He hated her because she was beautiful and in his garden. The creature stared at her through the protective trees and hated how the sun beams fell over her pale face brushed with freckles.

"Miss Daniels," came the plea for her once more. This time, however, it was a man that called her. "I'm bringing the gun!"

The creature cringed, remembering the bullet still lodged in his arm from his earnest efforts to save a girl from drowning. He did not want to get shot again.

"I'm alrig-" Georgia stopped speaking and moving as she spoke. Her emerald eyes had caught hold of the rubble he had left in his wake. She paled and slowly began backing up. Fear flushed over her features, she was caught between the desire to bolt into the woods and dread of moving.

"MISS DANIELS!" Shouted another man.

"Sir John! I am coming!" With that she fled, crushing a cluster of snowdrops as she did.

She was gone and the creature felt his body relax. He waited a moment before returning to the flowers and surveying the damage caused by Miss Daniels' careless steps. He heard her running before hearing the relieved cries of her companions. With her safely away from him, the creature wandered back to his cave and books.

"At least you didn't see me," he whispered mournfully to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

Georgia settled uncomfortably on the leather chaise in Sir John Lafoy’s expansive parlor. Two minutes in and the verbal berating she was receiving from Sir John and Nettie was already agitating her. She suffered further discomfort when she realized she had forgotten to relieve herself in the forest. Truly, though, she could not help, not when she saw the crushed flowers. Dread had filled her and she’d completely forgotten her original purpose in wandering off. All she wanted was a little bit a privacy but  felt none. Someone was certainly watching her in the woods. 

“Georgia, pay attention,” chided Sir John. He was an older man, just a few years older than her father, whose soft brown hair was beginning to turn white and frayed around his narrow head. He looked relaxed dressed in cotton trousers and shirt. The rigors of his status were momentarily hidden away: he was preparing for a hunt from what Georgia could tell. “Stay close to the estate, never wander off alone. This is not a request, it is an order. You do not know this area enough to survive being lost in it. The woods are not safe.”

“The monster the villagers mentioned? Is it there in the woods?” Curiosity made her forget her manners, but Sir John was always kind enough to answer her questions no matter how silly they were. She blushed at the look he gave her, the silent chiding, she knew the look too well.

“Miss Georgia, there are no such things as monsters. Nevertheless, the woods are not a place for a young lady to be wandering about. Clean yourself up and practice your music until supper. I won’t be back for a few days. Stay out of trouble.” With that he turned away from her and went to the mud room. 

Delighted to be free, Georgia ran to the outhouse. Unwilling to return to the parlor and begin playing Sir John’s piano, Georgia decided to take a walk. Sir John’s instructions played loudly in her head, she kept close to the tree line, remaining vigilant and ever watchful. Or was it just plain suspicion?  On her second lap around the house, she noticed the keen eyes of the servants following her. Would it always be so? Did they fear for her or fear in general? It was certainly stranger here than anywhere else she had been, there was a quiet dreariness here, even the skies seemed mellow and unhappy. 

As she walked, Georgia stretched out her long fingers and moved them as if warming them up for the music they would soon play. Notes swirled in her head as she composed the scene around her in her mind. The melody that played was simple and lackluster but sprinkled with bits of magic as she liked to call it. Dull as it was, the young woman found that there was something unearthly about the world around her, something that longed to be composed. 

A russet curl escaped her bun and as she twisted in with the rest she could not help but smile; this world was like the forest and the field of snowdrops: bleak but peppered with beauty. She would have to find a way to compose them. Satisfied with her mental work, she raced back into the large house and opened the piano. Her fingers slid over the piano keys like water over stone. The creative spark in her was alive and well, and it demanded much from her. She was desperate to keep pace with the notes, hearing them and writing them out, but they were quick and unrelenting. Before she knew it, the sun had set and supper was served and her music was to be stopped for a moment. 

 

***

 

“That was a pleasant piece you were working on, miss,” declared Nettie. The two of them sat in a small, but well-lit room where they were enjoying their supper. With Sir John out of the house, Georgia was free to dine as she pleased and with whom she pleased. 

Nettie had always been by her side and always would be, so Georgia hoped anyway, and Nettie readily affirmed this idea. She babbled on about the man Georgia would someday marry, he would never be able to separate them. She promised Georgia that she would also serve as the nurse to Georgia’s children. They were happy together, more like sisters than servant and mistress. 

“It is a bit drab, I think. Something doesn’t sound quite right,” Georgia replied with a frown.

Nettie shrugged. “It’s the countermelody, miss, if you don’t mind me saying. Drop the pitch.”

Before she could stop herself, Georgia burst out laughing. “Dearest Nettie, I am surprised. When did you learn so much about music?”

Nettie blushed. “Pardon me, miss.”

“Nonsense! Nettie, I merely impressed. Stop calling me ‘miss’, no one is here.”

“I didn’t want the other servants thinking me rude. I learned the music from you. Never seen a child as devoted as you. Shame there are so many restrictions for you. I mean, a young woman such as yourself, so full of passion but forced to suppress it.”

“There are restrictions on all of us, Nettie. Sir John has gone to the Frankensteins for a few days, I think he means to introduce me to them. I intend to complete my piece for them.”

Nettie tutted. “As much sorrow as that family has had to endure lately, I am sure they will welcome your talents. I hear that their Miss Elizabeth is quite an accomplished painter.”

The women continued their evening laughing and talking and eating. When they finished their meal, Georgia invited the servants into Sir John’s parlor where she entertained them with a series of short, lively tunes. It wasn’t until late in the night that Georgia and the servants retired to their rooms. Giddy from their evening, Georgia hummed to herself in the comfort of her bedroom. She stepped out of her frock and stripped down the layers of her undergarments before donning a plain sleeping gown. Before her vanity, she unclipped her hair and gently combed the red strands. Once finished with her nightly ritual, she blew out the candles spaced throughout her room and dared one wistful glance out her bedroom window towards the forest. She was blissfully ignorant of the intense gaze watching her in secret, hidden by the hedges of the estate’s gardens.


	3. Chapter 3

A musician! Like the patriarch of the De Lacey family, he continued to mourn. His woes knew no end. The vile creation of Frankenstein fled the home of Miss Daniels after he caught the marvelous sight of her night spectacle. It was his desire to be a gentleman and not the monster he was created to be that made him tear away his gaze. The beauty of women was undeniable, but they were far too beautiful to be gawked at like meat pies in a bar. If Frankenstein had been true to his word he could have shown his mate just how gentlemanly he was.

It was well past midnight by the time he left the estate which was, in comparison, much smaller than that of his father’s. But Miss Daniels’ home was richer in decoration and liveliness. The lack of the latter in the Frankenstein household, however, was his fault. The murder of a child and his nanny was more than enough to destroy a family. The creature was still not sure if this was something he was proud of.

Weathered boots struck the ground as his large form marched the new trail back to his hideout. The old, tattered grey cloak he wore flapped in the breeze created by his swift movements. Each step took him further away from potential heartache, and closer to the complete undoing of himself. It was a vital necessity for him to be as far from Georgia as possible. She could never see him, let alone learn about him. When the thought of her smile filled his mind he grew angry before he stopped on his journey to cry the bitter tears that always came as a result of his loneliness.

Just as he had been drawn to Justine, the creature felt drawn to Georgia, but he knew better than to give in. If she beheld him the look of utter terror from her would kill him, just as his appearance would surely kill her. In the end, he resolved not to return to that estate, he would not seek out Miss Daniels. Instead, his thoughts turned darker: he would complete his quest for vengeance. If he could not have love, then he would take it from the person who denied it to him.

***

A week had passed since the creature was nearly discovered by Georgia and a week since he had stalked Victor Frankenstein. During his holiday from hate and longing, he spent his time seething by a brook and washing and what few clothes he possessed. The water was cool as it passed over his long frame as he bathed, but he could endure the chill, another gift from his father. His stretched skin grew grey in the chill. He longed for the joy of a warm bath and pondered how his sutured skin would respond to the temperature. Would the redness finally fade or would he develop a hue that didn’t make him look so dead?

In two weeks he would return to his stream to rinse his filth and revive his shattered soul. He was glad he was not like humans: he did not perspire the way they did, nor did he produce as much oil on his body as they did, and the foulness of their natural odors could not be counted as one of his traits. He was bound to his ugly form, but he was far cleaner than most humans and required less work to get that way.

But the intermittence was over and he once again found himself fuming about his father. As the sun rose over the house of Frankenstein the creature crept close but remained hidden in the treeline. His peckish eyes searched for his prey but instead found a creature he hadn’t expected. Bursting from the Frankenstein house with her arm locked around the would-be wife of Victor was Georgia. She laughed, ignorant of Elizabeth’s quiet reserve, and looked so blissfully innocent. He felt his body go rigid as he watched the two women walk out onto the lawn. Rage and jealousy welled up in him, but the emotions would not remain alone for he soon felt the bitter sting of hurt and sorrow. Her laughter would never be directed towards him, not unless it was in the form of scorn and jeering.  

Frankenstein did not deserve her! He deserved none of the women dwelling in his house, least of all the jovial Georgia. How could his father deny his one request and then have a girl with the same colored hair as his ill-begotten lover as one of his guests? The creature trembled in rage, vowing to undo Frankenstein once more. Grey gave way to blotchy red as his anger seethed; had any soul ever known the rage that he felt?

***

“Oh, Miss Elizabeth, you must read it!” Cried Georgia. “I feel that I am quite like Marianne Dashwood. And, you, dear Elizabeth, are like Elinor, her older sister. Do I sound brash, Miss Elizabeth?” Georgia frowned briefly and managed to restrict her movements. The creature frowned in disapproval at her sudden change in demeanor as he watched them at a careful distance.

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “Nonsense,” she replied. “Forgive me. I am trying to be cheerful, but we have lost so much. You are so pleasant, but I am afraid that I cannot be.”

Georgia paused for a moment, contemplating her next move. She certainly knew loss, it was a constant and sure companion.“One of Miss Austen’s clever books will cheer you up. Sense and Sensibility is the best to start with.” Georgia’s bright countenance returned once more. “I met her once. Miss Austen, I mean. When I was sixteen.”

A burst of laughter found its way out of Elizabeth. Alfonse Frankenstein, Victor’s father, heard the sound from the other end of the lawn and grinned widely. The happiness of his children, the sound of their laughter, and the jovial existence of life was all that he yearned and hoped for. To hear his adopted daughter laugh after so many tears solidified his resolve to keep Georgia Daniels close to his family. At once, he turned back towards his home to fetch a servant. He would write to Sir John, imploring him to let Georgia stay awhile longer, at least until Victor and Elizabeth were finally married.

“I believe it, Miss Georgia,” stated Elizabeth in a fit of delighted laughter.

Together the women made several laps around the manor, sometimes speaking and sometimes laughing. Georgia asked Elizabeth about her painting and sketches and made an ardent request to see her work. They celebrated their talents as they disappeared for yet another lap. The creature watched them walk away once more before departing. He would have to find the book Georgia spoke of. Despite his better judgement, he had to know why she was so cheerful and what book could inspire so much passion in a young woman. He needed to understand her. He needed her.


	4. Chapter 4

Alfonse Frankenstein cried with delight when Sir John sent Georgia’s servant, Nettie, to his home along with a trunk of clothes for Georgia. “Miss Daniels!” He laughed as Georgia descended the steps for breakfast. “You’re to stay here for two months! We are so delighted. I’ve even taken the liberty to arrange another room for you, one with a piano, and it opens out to the patio! I think you will be quite comfortable there and at leisure to practice your music when you please.”

“Mr. Frankenstein,” she said coming towards him. “Truly, you are a dear friend. My father would have been so pleased to know that I have such good friends. Please, this is Nettie.” Georgia gestured to her shy friend and confidant. “She’s been with me my whole life, like an elder sister.”

The mirth in Alfonse’s eyes faltered briefly. “Like our dear Justine,” he muttered. “Eat and then we will get you settled. Miss Nettie, do you play cards?”

Nettie blushe, but nodded. It had been years since anyone had addressed her in such a manner. Perhaps she would not be too cruel in their evening game of cards, she might let him win.

 

***

 

Evening came much quicker than they realized and supper was served at nightfall. Alfonse would hear none of Nettie’s protests and demanded that she dine with them. A full dining table, he told them, looked better than an empty one. Dinner began awkwardly as Georgia attempted to ask Victor about his studies in Ingolstadt.

“I’ve left the university,” he replied curtly as he tossed back his dark blond hair. “It wasn’t for me. Besides, I was needed here.” After that, he would speak no more, not unless asked a direct question, something Georgia felt increasingly uncomfortable doing.

“Miss Daniels, how long have you been playing the piano?” Asked Alfonse.

“Since I was a small girl. My mother used to play and I always wanted something of hers that I could keep forever. Music seemed natural, like breathing and eating, and laughing.”

“And your father approved of this?”

Georgia nodded. “Yes, sir. He always encouraged me. He used to say ‘life is too short to waste it on occupations you do not love’. He worried I would be unhappy and I promised him that that could never be: it is my nature to be unhappy.”  

Alfonse agreed and pressed further, trying to stimulate and facilitate conversation. “Do you miss Southampton? Your amiable friends?”

Georgia tucked a phantom strand of red hair behind her ear unconsciously. “Of course, but it was necessary for me to leave, at least for a while. I write to my friends, well, one, Mrs. Davenport. She one of the finest women in England; I miss her dearly. As does Nettie,” she added with a knowing smile. “They played cards, often.”

When dinner finished Victor whisked Elizabeth into the study where they spent the remainder of the evening chatting in private. Alfonse invited Nettie to a round of cards that involved several long hours of Nettie deliberately losing only to destroy Alfonse on the last hand. Georgia was greeted by their roaring laughter well into the night. Life in Geneva, especially the Frankenstein house, seemed so relaxed, so open. Her troubles in England seemed but a distant dream.

Georgia, however, was eager to return to her room and practice her music. Much to her delight, she found that few could hear her playing; she would disturb no one and they would not disturb her. Her fingers met the keys of the piano like a tender lover, learning once more the tender places to touch. In the dull light of the candles and hearth, Georgia hummed a slow melody as her fingers tapped out the lulling notes. Peace came to her through the music and through her books, they could almost make her forget.

With a jolt, Georgia accidently hit the wrong black key, disrupting the flow of her song. It was like a tear in the sky and caused Georgia to freeze. Her fingers hovered over the keys as the hairs on her body stood on end. In her chest, her heart thundered, the palpitations threatened to break her ribs. She wheezed in fear.

“I know you’re there,” she said in breathless fear. She was met with silence. “I-I knew you were there in the forest.” Still, no answer came. She wanted to turn and catch him in the act, whoever he was, but she was frozen in fear. “Do you plan to kill me?” Her voice trembled ever so slightly, but she pushed her fear aside as best she could.

Her fingers trembled. If she screamed out, help would come, but judging by Victor’s actions throughout her stay, no one in the Frankenstein household would ever taste freedom again.

Annoyed by the silence, she plucked up the courage to ask him more aggressively if he was going to kill her.

“— No.”

Her heart skipped a beat and a scream began ascending in her throat. What creature bore that voice? The once soft and delicate timbre was now broken and cracked with an odd inflection. Would he say anything else?

“Why are you here?” Georgia’s voice was barely a whisper.

She heard the sound of a crumpled parchment paper behind her. It hit the floor softly and came to rest at her feet. Slowly, she bent over and as the took hold of the paper, out of the corner of her eye she saw the shadow of a figure race from her patio. The piano stool fell over as she sprinted to the door, hoping to catch him. Like a bird in flight, the figure sailed over the lawn. His cloak billowed and flared as he ran, leaving her to speculate his true size. He was fast, and light on his feet. When he reached the tree line he stopped and turned back to her. He was too far for her to truly see him, but she knew he was looking at her. He lingered only a second before disappearing into the night.

Left with the aftermath of her fear and crinkled parchment, Georgia convinced herself to shut the patio door and close her piano for the night. When she finally felt relaxed enough to sleep she opened the parchment to find that it was a tattered sheet of music belonging to a larger piece. She hastily read through the lyrics down to the scrawl at the base of the page. The figure had left her a note.

 

_ Play this for me _


	5. Chapter 5

 

One two three four, two two three four, three two three four, four two three four, flat. Georgia groaned as she struck the f flat again. It was not a complicated piece, but it certainly was strange to her classical ears. She wondered if it was a folk piece, but could not be sure. Alfonse Frankenstein swore he had never heard it before.

“Is it not one of pieces you brought with you?” He questioned as he looked over the page. “What is that on the bottom? An admirer? His penmanship lacks discipline. What sort of fellow was he that gave this to you?”

Victor seemed ill at ease the more his father pried. It did not escape Georgia’s notice. Her phantom of the night was connected to him. As to how they were connected, she could not say. Did Victor know someone came to her at night? Or that she had been visited for the past several evenings? Why would he not say anything? 

Elizabeth fretted over him like a dutiful wife and had tea brought to all of them. She smiled meekly at Georgia; she had run out of excuses for Victor. Georgia finally tore her gaze from her fair friend to speak with her merry host.

“Yes, I do believe it was a young man in England. He was painfully shy, if I recall. It must have been given to me before my father passed.” Her emerald eyes fell back on the music; guilt plagued her, but she could find no other way of explaining how it had come to her. The Frankenstein’s were a friendly family, heedless of rumors and gossip, they thrived only on life and happiness, but even they could never respect her for allowing a strange man to approach her in her private quarters. Indeed, she felt a strong sensation that Alfonse would be disappointed in her. Her affinity with him was becoming stronger as he reminded her so much of her departed father.

“Well, the lad is quite far away now,” he laughed. “Will you sing what you have for us?”

Her gaze flickered beyond the window of the Frankenstein parlor to the forest line. It was too chilly of a day for them to keep the windows open, but Georgia wondered if her visitor could hear her. Placing her right hand near the end of the piano with her other hand on the center keys, Georgia began her steady rhythm.

“ _By the meadow did I dream_

_ of thy love so sweetly _

_ as soft as ringing bells _

_ in your arms my heart doth dwell” _

 

“Shame you broke the lad’s heart,” joked Alfonse. “‘Tis a splendid piece and played too beautifully by the most talented pianist of our time!”

Georgia blushed and Elizabeth implored her father to cease his adoration. “Shall we go for a walk?” Asked Georgia as she rose from her piano. Alfonse blanched.

“My dear, it is quite cool!”

“Fresh air will rejuvenate me. This music is new to me and a bit frustrating. I think a short walk around the grounds will help me clear my mind,” she countered.

“Who really gave you that music?” Snapped Victor suddenly. He rose from his seat, leaving Elizabeth to gape. His gaze burned into her, frightening her.

“Victor! What in heaven’s name?” Cried his father. “Miss Daniels, please forgive my son, he has been under a great deal of stress lately. Please, take your stroll. Take Nettie with you.” 

A smile was in his face, but not his eyes. Victor’s behavior scared her more than the unknownness of her nightly visitor. Folding the sheet of music into her pocket Georgia was a momentary distracted from being caught in the awkward exchanges between the Frankenstein family. Georgia quickly took her leave and fetched Nettie.

***

Cool wind was a bitter reminder that winter was not a season to be trifled with, certainly not in a foreign country where they were the guests. Nettie and Georgia endured it by thinking of how the sun would return soon and with it, the soft warmth of spring. But Georgia’s thoughts weren’t on the weather, her mind lingered on  _ him. _

“Victor Frankenstein had no right to speak to you like that. He has some nerve. I will write Sir John at once,” declared Nettie. 

“No, Nettie, Mr. Frankenstein is embarrassed by his son. If Sir John summons us now they shall be insulted!”

“ _ You  _ should be insulted, Miss.” Nettie stopped in horror. “Pardon me, Miss, I have stepped far from my station. Forgive me, please. I love you too dearly to watch Victor attack you like that.”

The hair on Georgia’s neck stood on end, a telltale sign that her watcher was nearby. Could he hear them? What thoughts passed through his mind? What thoughts were passing through her own mind? Was she so enthralled by romances that she convinced herself she was in one?

Nettie sighed loudly. The day was wearing on and it would be dark soon. When Georgia returned to the house she felt a solemn stillness in the air. Victor it seems, had disappeared. Elizabeth informed her that he left often, much to their chagrin. His leaving always came at the worst of times. Elizabeth became even more withdrawn than before and the copy of  _ Sense and Sensibility  _ Georgia lent her remained untouched in the drawing room. Georgia would remove it later to her own care once more.

But the Frankenstein’s family neglect would not prevent Georgia from exploring her phantom. Once she was free to retire she returned to her room, she locked herself in from the rest of house, but left the patio unlocked. The hearth roared with a fire made earlier by a servant, it sat opposite of the patio door. Her bed sat neatly just a few feet from the main door and the hearth. Her piano sat pressed against the windows on the wall adjacent to the patio. She would not be able to see her guest enter and the curtains over the windows prevented her from spying his reflection. 

_ “In your arms my heart doth dwell. . .” _ She sang, finally getting the notes right. She paused for a moment and tried to decipher the next two lines. Silently, she tapped out the notes, hearing them in her head before she felt comfortable enough to play them. After the fourth time of playing through the melody and the countermelody she decided to try singing the next stanza.

 

_ By meadows did I dream _

_ of thy love so sweetly _

_ as water of sparkling stream _

_ coats the golden reeds  _

 

The final note faltered and Georgia froze. For a moment, she wondered if she would ever relax around her visitor. She forced her shoulders back down and shook the tension from her hands.

“It’s beautiful,” he declared with his oddly inflected and delicately broken voice. He seemed sad and forlorn to her. 

“Do you have the rest?” She asked without turning.

“No.”

“Why do you come?”

“To hear you play. To hear you sing. It is beautiful.”

“May I turn?” She asked. Behind her, she heard shuffling as her visitor hid behind her dressing screen.

“Will you play anymore?” Asked her companion weakly.

Georgia turned fully, facing the screen. Behind the screen her large visitor crouched as best he could. She could see his shadow on the floor, it stretched out towards the freedom it had given up. She bent to extinguish the candles sitting atop her piano. As each light was snuffed out the room blanketed itself in darkness like a mantle of secrets. 

“Not tonight,” she replied softly. She was terrified, but her fear propelled her, she would unravel the mystery that was her visitor. “Tonight I want to speak with you, sir.”

He shuffled once more behind the screen. No one had ever wanted to talk to him before, not unless he made them. Was he forcing her to speak with him? He was in her room, but she left the door unlocked, she played and sang his song. “I am no ‘sir’ or lord or any sort of gentleman or gentry.”

Georgia frowned in the dullness of the room. “Then what shall I call you?” She asked plainly. 

“Nothing,” came his response. “For now I have no name, no identity. I am the silent wind blowing in the summer.”

“You are a poet,” she retorted with a smile. “But enough banter. You’ve come to me. Why?”

The door was right there. He had but to run to it and he would be free. Oh! How his heart betrayed and taunted him!  _ Because you are beautiful, _ he thought, though he knew better than to say it. She was well read and too thoughtful and clever to be merely summed up as beautiful.

“You make me feel human. You are my last hope. The music you play,” he whimpered in unknown tragic pain, “is divine. I am at peace and the tempest is sedated.”

Georgia sat on her bed and eyed the screen. For a brief moment she caught a glance of the figure behind it. A dark, patchy cowl hid his face, but he was there. He was real; she felt at ease being able to see any part of him.

“What a curious thing to say, dear poet.” She paused for a moment. “Will you come tomorrow?”

From the shadows came a sigh, one of elation and relief. “Yes,” replied the broken voice. “If that is your wish, Miss Daniels.”

As he said her name she heard the fear and horror that followed it. He froze like a caught deer, desiring to flee but having nowhere to run. His shattered heart screamed and the tempest he thought had been quelled flared to life. If she hated him in that instant, if she screamed in horror that he spied on her the way the De Lacey’s had, he would end her then and there. He would walk into the Frankenstein house and kill all that it contained.

“Georgia,” she said. He melted in that moment. He could do nothing to her now. Nothing except love every piece of her. She was his mistress and he was at her mercy, although she did not know it.

“Georgia,” he repeated with adoration. Her name on his lips tasted like sweet berries. He loved and desired her with a passion unknown to him. “I will return, Georgia, if that is your wish.”

Her lips curled slightly. “It is, poet.” She then reached up to the clips that bound her hair.

“Don’t!” He pleaded. Georgia let her hands fall to her sides. She asked no questions of  him but instead turned from him. He lacked the strength to watch her so closely. As he went to the door of the patio she spoke to him once more.

“Don’t be afraid of me.”

He then threw another gift for her to the floor and fled her room. Georgia trembled and sighed. Silent tears fell down her face. She stood from her bed and went to lock the patio door. Where he went, she could not say. Part of her was glad he was gone, the other part wanted him to stay. When she turned from the door she saw what he left behind for her. A single snowdrop stared mournfully up at her. To her delight, it wasn’t crushed like the bundle she discovered when she first came to the country.

When she was finally ready for bed, she kept the blossom close to her heart and dreamt of a prince. He was gallant and tall, and he would save her from the uncertain future that awaited her in England. 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Was he trying to woo her? In a manner of speaking, he was. With the bitter memory of the De Lacey’s as a reminder, he could not afford to repeat his original mistake. He would subtly introduce himself to Georgia and win her affection and when, if the day ever came, he would show himself to her and she would not shriek in fear and disgust. She would embrace him, even if she never came to love him. She was strong, like an addiction he would never be able to sunder himself from. To whatever end it would bring, he didn’t want to be parted from her.

But Victor was another matter, one that threatened to foil his plans. His father must have figured out that he had given Georgia the song, but how? He wondered. Was it pure suspicion? He didn’t blame Victor. After what Frankenstein did to his bride and what he, in turn, did to Henry was enough to make anyone paranoid and suspicious. Victor was right to be paranoid, the creature conceded bitterly. But why was he so determined to ruin his creation’s happiness?

Victor, however, was dealing with his hatred in a wretched manner. His attitude towards Georgia was infuriating. Unjust, to say the least, she had no part in their quarrel. But his father lacked all manner of compassion, and he knew not what he was blessed with. The creature stopped his hike and cried. Stopping to cry seemed a permanent ritual for him since he first laid eyes on Georgia. Victor had Georgia in his company, he had her music and her voice, and yet, he could utter nothing kind to her. If only they could trade places, he lamented. He would treasure and protect Georgia and Elizabeth. 

The creature reached the tree line of the Frankenstein house just as the sun was beginning to set. Through the trees, he saw Alfonse Frankenstein speaking with one of his servants. Georgia was in tears with Nettie’s arms wrapped around her in consolation.

“My dear girl, forgive Victor and us. I had not realized how unwell he truly is.” Alfonse looked ashen and terribly ashamed. He awkwardly tried to set his arm on Georgia’s shoulders, but her quiet sobbing unnerved him.

“Miss Daniels,” whispered Nettie. “Dry your eyes. You cannot act this way.”

The creature wondered then at the restrictions placed on Georgia’s emotions. What had that wretched devil of a father done to destroy her composure? His jaw tightened and clenched as he watched Georgia fight to regain her composure. 

“I do not, Mr. Frankenstein, wish to be a burden on your family.” Her voice was meek and broken. She offered Alfonse a fake smile, pretending that she was over the recent exchange.

“Oh, Miss Daniels, you have been nothing of the sort, nor could you ever be. Miss Nettie, will you be kind enough to draw up a warm bath for Miss Daniels. I will have Martha bring you tea. The English drink tea in these circumstances, is that correct?” Alfonse asked awkwardly.

Nettie scowled, forgetting her advice to Georgia. “This sort of behavior is not common amongst the English. If you must know, we drink tea for any occasion. It is a far better drink for retaining one’s wits.”

“Nettie!” Cried Georgia.

Alfonse nodded softly. “I will get Martha then. I ask that you remain in your room, Miss Daniels until we are able to take you back to Sir John.” He left them in haste, fleeing around the corner of his house. They heard him shouting to the servants and crying out for Victor. His anger boomed in the colorful atmosphere. A beautiful day had been soured and the night seemed unable to erase his shame.

 

***

“Nettie, I am alright. I will lock myself in. Please, you don’t need to stand outside. Nettie, I am fine to sleep alone. Victor isn’t even home. You watched him leave!” Georgia and Nettie stood arguing that the threshold of her room. Nettie continued fretting over Georgia like a worried mother. It took some effort for Georgia to wedge Nettie from her door and shut it. A tinge of guilt surfaced, Nettie was only trying to help. After a while, the older woman left the girl and returned to her own room where she spent the night wringing her hands together at the distress Victor caused.

Once alone Georgia reached up to her face, there was slight bruising, and the flesh prickled with sensitivity. In a few days time, she will have forgotten the pain, but she would never forget who did it. Georgia placed herself before the hearth and gently combed her hair, careful not to break apart her damp curls. The confrontation with Victor played in her head again and again.

_ Victor appeared out of nowhere as Georgia took another lap around the house. In her hand was the snowdrop her companion had given her. She smiled to herself as she examined it, completely unaware of the man charging towards her. Before she had a moment to react Victor snatched the blossom from her hand. _

_ “Monster!” He hissed at her. Georgia back away from him in fear.  _

_ “Mr. Frankenstein! Return my flower,” her voice trembled. In that moment, she realized that it was not her companion she feared, it was Victor, it was his presence that frightened her. _

_ Victor ripped the blossom and threw it to the ground. “No! Demon! I should have destroyed you like Henry said. You and that abomination!” _

_ “What are you talking ab—”  _

_ Before she could finish, Victor’s hand struck across her face with enough force to knock her to the ground. She was stunned to silence, but she could hear the voices of Elizabeth and Alfonse, as well as the servants, cry out, their voices sounded muffled and distant. Georgia flinched as Victor raised his hand to strike her again before one of the servants tackled Victor and restrained him. Elizabeth wept while Alfonse pulled Georgia towards the house. It all had happened so fast, and she was left clueless as to why it happened at all. _

 

Georgia felt the warm, stinging tears slide down her face. With the sleeve of her nightgown she gingerly wiped the fallen drops away. 

“He hit you,” came a voice from the other side of the room. Standing in the doorway was a hulk of a man, or at least, he seemed so from where she sat.

Georgia stood facing her companion. His weathered cloak shielded his form, his hood remained pulled over his face, obscuring any hope she had of seeing him. She approached him slowly and stopped when she saw him tense. He was, at least, two feet taller than she, his frame dwarfed her. 

“Did Frankenstein hit you?” He asked. His tone was restrained, he was angry but did his best to mask it front of her. Would she tell him the truth? 

“Yes,” she replied.”

His hands tightened into fists at his sides. Georgia gasped loudly and took a step away from him. In the broken light of the early spring moon and the fickle light from the hearth she saw his hands. At first, she thought the light was playing tricks on her, and then she realize that the ashy color of his hands was simply how they looked. The crude scars on his left hand did not go unnoticed by her either. Her companion knew in that moment he had made a terrible mistake. He quickly concealed the appendages beneath his cloak and turned from her.

“Please,” he begged, “do not fear me. I am a monster, but I will never hurt you, Georgia.”

_ Why? Oh, God, why had he done that?  _ The loss of control, the exposure, it was killing him now. The creature cursed Frankenstein. Hot tears wove their crooked path down his cheeks. If she could not bear the sight of his hands, she could never see the rest of him. The weight of his heart tugged painfully.

“Geor—” He froze. Snaking around him from behind were her pale arms. They brushed past his arms and came to rest on his abdomen. She locked herself into position by lacing her fingers together. He felt her cheek press against his back and her breasts—  _ her breasts.  _ Terror fell over him like an enormous shadow. Did she know how dangerous this was? Did she know how badly he wanted her, how he needed her? Did she realize how she made him hate Frankenstein more?

“You’re not a monster. I’ve seen them. I  saw one today. I’ve been avoiding one my whole life. You, my poet, are a saving grace.” She gripped him tighter.

His mind cried in agony. Against his will, he trembled. “You have not seen me, kind Georgia. I am unfit to be seen by one so beautiful.”

Her grip became firmer. Had the tempest roared back to life? It tried desperately to pry him from her. She, however, could not bring herself to release him. How could she explain that she had only been startled? But she had feared him in the beginning. Would he forgive her naivety? Romantic novels had ruined her expectations of men in real life, but her poet was different, a storybook character come to life. She needed someone like her poet.

“You haven’t seen my face, my body.” He wanted so desperately to touch her, kiss her, cherish her. The longing was immense, beyond anything he had ever known in his short life.

He groaned. With a slow intake of air, he calmed himself. “Georgia. . . .” He was unraveling. Desire was mixing with fear; if she scorned him he would waste away. What was left of his soul would be devoured by the dark recesses of his tortured mind.

Her grip on him finally loosened. “What is your history with Victor?” She tried desperately to pierce the shroud around him. The chaotic puzzle of his presence was difficult to piece together. “He said the most disturbing things to me. He said he should have destroyed me like Henry told him too.”

The creature heaved with a sigh. Light faded as the fire diminished in the hearth. They both became enveloped in darkness. Despite the lack of light, Georgia could see his large shape pacing. The floorboards creaked and sighed with his footfalls. 

“You,” his tormented voice whispered. “You remind him of a promise; of my intended.”

Georgia blushed. So he had been in love before and Frankenstein ended it. She felt a tinge of jealousy and at the same time, she was glad he was no longer with this unknown woman. Georgia felt hopelessly romantic, like Marianne clinging to Willoughby.

“Do I look like her? Your intended?”

“Just your hair,” he mused.

“May I see your hands,” she interjected suddenly.

“There is no light,” he countered.

Georgia’s face soured. Gentlemen did not tease or banter with her, that was something only Nettie did. Was this affection? Suitors actively pursued her when she was a few years younger, each hungered for her father’s property. When her claim to his property became disputed, all of her suitors abandoned her. Was this what it felt like to flirt?

“Let me feel your hands then,” she ordered. 

From the shadows his hand appeared. Although she could not see it, she knew precisely where it was. Instead of his hand, her long fingers came into contact with a folded piece of paper. He released it into her keeping and dropped his arm.

“Another gift?”

“I cannot give you jewels or the fine things you deserve. What I have given you is all I can give.”

Anything she asked for he would give, except the ability to see him. That privilege could be given if she could love him as he was. It was something he did not believe she was capable of, no one was.

“Your hand, dear poet.” She reached out into the darkness, waiting. He hesitated a moment before lifting his arm out for her. The paper he had given her was carefully placed in her nightgown. In the darkness, her hands sought out his. When the smooth flesh of her well-used fingers touched his wrinkled flesh he felt as though lightning struck him. Electricity hummed through him as it did the day he came to life.

Her fingers traced along the lines of his palms, the evidence of someone else’s life. She was delicate with him but critical: she was creating a map of his hand in her mind. Her fingers then sought out his wrist. It was smooth; his right arm had been attached to the rest of him closer to his shoulder. His forearm was smooth, only feathered by slight scarring. His left arm, however, held an entirely different story, but he kept that story to himself. She hadn’t exactly been deceived about his appearance. 

Georgia, after running her fingers over the sensitive flesh of his inner arm, laced her fingers through his. A click emitted from the creature as he sucked in air with great care to suppress his urge to moan. Her touch could melt steel. He was petrified, the doom he fought so hard against was coming upon him.

“May I have your other hand?” She asked. The fear in her voice had finally disappeared, which  was for terrifying and agonizing for him to hear.

_ Yes, _ screamed his mind,  _ you can have anything you desire.  _ “No. It is late, Georgia. I must go.”

She said nothing for a moment. “Frankenstein has already left and I do not know where his father sent him. I am to return to Sir John’s estate shortly. Will you visit me there?”

Georgia slept on the third floor, how could he visit her there? “If that is your wish,” he answered with his back to her.

“It is,” she replied.

“Then I will find a way. Georgia, I must go. I will return to you soon, I promise.”  _ I will always return to you. _

Just as he started towards the patio door she took his left hand in hers. His movements halted. Taking his hand, she brought the appendage up to her lips and kissed his palm. His gasp was loud as he cried out her name in horror. He snatched his hand from her and ran through the open patio door, fleeing into the night. Georgia smiled to herself as she watched him flee. The desire to be bold with a man had always burned in her veins, but there had never been a man she felt inclined to break propriety for. Her poet, however, lit a flame in her soul; she had to see him and learn as much as she could about him.

She pulled the folded paper from her gown and smoothed out its page. The moon shone through the glass of the patio door and fell over the crude words of his handwriting. She grinned as she read the poem by William Wordsworth. A poem that summed him up better than it did her. 

  
She was a phantom of delight    
When first she gleamed upon my sight;    
A lovely Apparition, sent    
To be a moment's ornament;    
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;    
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;    
But all things else about her drawn    
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;    
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,    
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.    
  
I saw her upon a nearer view,    
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!    
Her household motions light and free,    
And steps of virgin liberty;    
A countenance in which did meet    
Sweet records, promises as sweet;    
A Creature not too bright or good    
For human nature's daily food;    
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,    
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.    
  
And now I see with eye serene    
The very pulse of the machine;    
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,    
A Traveler between life and death;    
The reason firm, the temperate will,    
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;    
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,    
To warm, to comfort, and command;    
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,    
With something of angelic light.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 

 

The wind felt magical against his skin as he ran. Was this what birds felt as they sailed through open skies? He almost forgot his anger and hatred for Frankenstein due to the giddiness he now felt. What wonders! His hand still tingled where she kissed him. It took everything in him not to turn back and look at her, if he had, he would have ruined everything by showing himself. She was like fire in his blood!

The terrain changed rapidly as he raced faster than any man could. Roots poked out between trees but he leapt over them with little care or caution. Occasionally, he would hit a patch of mud and skid through the forest, but his balance was impeccable. He was a spirit in the forest, a natural addition.

Some miles north of the Frankenstein house he caught sight of a road where a carriage raced on. The carriage was speeding towards a small town, only a few miles separated it from its destination. What was Victor doing? But the creature raced on; inhuman speed propelled him, he would soon catch up to the carriage.

Once in the town the creature crouched low and hid among crates and buildings as he followed Victor and surprisingly, Elizabeth. Her doting on Victor infuriated the creature. Elizabeth was far too beautiful and kind to be with someone like Victor. His father knew not how fortunate he truly was.

Victor stumbled into a building, an inn of some sort, the creature guessed, and disappeared within. Men tended to the couple and led them upstairs. They spoke in hushed whispers in an attempt to pass undetected by the other patrons of the inn. 

“Fetch the doctor,” said one man to another. “They need to be gone before morning. Keep them quiet, Claude.”

All the windows in town were shuttered and gave the creature the freedom to lurk about undetected. He maneuvered through several alleyways, circling the inn before finding a building with access to the roof. Agile and quick, he scaled the wall to the top like a spider. Once on the roof he spied the inn and began his circumambulations trying to find Frankenstein’s room. 

Most of the rooms, like the town, were shuttered with the exception of the corner room at the west end of the inn. There were several candles lit and a fire— just enough light for the creature to peer inside. Frankenstein sat despondently in an armchair by the fire. Elizabeth sat at his feet rubbing his knees, offering some vain form of consolation. The creature crept closer, trying to hear each word that passed between the two.

“Victor, please,” she begged in her delicate voice. “Tell me what is bothering you. Who are you afraid of?”

She was on the verge of fresh tears. In their youth, it had been so easy to pull what she wanted from him. He had been so eager to trust her, to love her. What happened? He was ashamed of something, something unrelated to the assault on Georgia. Elizabeth whimpered as she massaged Victor’s knees.

“My father,” said Victor at last, “is sending me to England. He will follow us. Perhaps the creature will remain here in pursuit of his vile lust for Georgia.”

Elizabeth wept at his words, thinking him mad beyond hope. His creation, however, fumed. Lust! His father accused him of lusting after Georgia! He desired her, of course, how could he not? But he was not so base that he would pursue her for this reason. Was Frankenstein so ignorant of her grace and kindness? Was he so ignorant of beauty? Elizabeth wept at his feet, and yet, he seemed unmoved. At this, the creature frowned; Victor was far too callous for such a fragile woman. He was far too cruel for such devotion and tenderness.

After a moment, Elizabeth collected herself. “Why don’t I prepare a bath for you? We’ve such a long day tomorrow. A bath would be nice, I think.”

“Prepare one for yourself. I will keep watch,” he responded coldly. 

Her lip and chin quivered, but she resigned herself to his madness. She left him, silently weeping as she prepared one comfort for herself.

The creature watched for a while yet, contemplating what he would do. The desire to ruin Victor had passed, Victor was doing the damage by himself. Yet, he was sad for Elizabeth who would now tend to the paranoia of her intended. The destruction of their happiness was Victor’s doing, but the creature knew he held some of the blame, he committed horrible acts of revenge that left him feeling empty rather than satisfied. If Victor had never made him, then none of them would be where they were now. Georgia, he thought sadly, would play her music for some other soul and he would beautiful, adoring every note that escaped her. Perhaps the gentlemen would have been Henry Clerval. But Victor sought to conquer what was not his dominion and thus stole the happiness of many.

But the creature decided to end his feud with his father. He would turn back and return to Georgia. There had to be a way for him to ensnare Georgia’s affections. But what could he offer a girl of so much wealth? Truthfully, there was nothing he could offer except brute strength to protect her. He pushed the dark thoughts from his mind and turned from the refuge of his broken father. He would have to find some way to offer Georgia what she deserved.

 

***

 

The sun was well into the sky by the time he reached the Frankenstein house. Georgia was awake and was packing her belongings. She didn’t seem particularly sad at the impending departure, but she continued to cast forlorn glances at the patio door. The creature smiled to himself as he watched at a distance.

Georgia vocalized soft melodies as she worked several dresses into her trunk. Several bonnets followed soon after; the final items to be added to the case were her books and loose sheets of music. She shut the trunk and latched it. With a heft, Georgia pulled the trunk from her bed and proceeded towards the door. Just as her fingers went to the handle she heard a knock.

At her door stood Alfonse looking as melancholy as he ever could. “Good day, Miss Daniels. I trust you are feeling better? Please forgive my family and me for sending you away so hastily; but without any women to keep you company, I could not leave you in the house thus. As an apology, though, I insist you take this piano with you.” His final statement brought a kind smile to his lips, one he had often displayed before his family experienced so much grief.

“Mr. Frankenstein, I could not! Please, let the events of yesterday remain there and think no more of it.”

“Miss Daniels, you must take it. I shall be insulted if you do not. Besides,” he chuckled at her dismay, “we have another in the parlor. My late wife was the only one who ever played. You play so beautifully; it would warm my heart to know such an instrument would be well tended too. Think of it as a token of friendship. You will always be welcomed in my house.”

After such an impassioned speech, Georgia felt that she could not refuse. She humbly accepted the deliverance of the instrument to Sir John’s estate in a few days time. She also accepted the senior Frankenstein’s desire to carry her luggage.

All the while, the creature watched, wondering how he could steal away into her room. He lingered around the Frankenstein house long enough to watch Georgia and her servant quit the house indefinitely. Once he knew she was safely on her way he returned to his cave where he spent the remainder of the day dreaming of Georgia.

If he could remain with his dreams he would, and forever. Georgia’s soft lips devoured his skin and her eyes beheld him with such love and longing, not fear or scorn. Her russet hair fell and covered him like a mantle, a shield of protection. She was a blanket covering his crimes, easing away his anger. When he woke in the evening he envisioned her cast in a glow of sunlight and it was to this heavenly vision that he eased the tension building in him since the day he first saw her.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Darkness cloaked the house of Sir John, muffling the late night gossip of servants and the general creaking of the old house. For Georgia, however, the events of the past few days had nearly been too much for her and so she lay still as death in her bed. The window to her room sat open and the warming spring air wafted into her room. It had been quite an adjustment sleeping in the room once more: she no longer had a piano to occupy her or a patio door that beckoned a stranger.

She waited as long as she could for him, but she was weary and sleep could no longer be avoided. Against the wall near her open window was a small writing desk and on it sat the food she managed to commandeer for her visitor. She left it covered in case he finally came and needed it. He would find her to be a compassionate host.

It wasn’t until one in the morning that Georgia’s nocturnal quest arrived. There was no moon this night and even if there had been, the collection of clouds above would have kept her secret that night. The creature, however, was not deterred by the absence of natural light, Victor had endowed him with superb sight. He could see Georgia’s small frame beneath a collection of blankets ruffled around her. Her beautiful hair fell over her pillow in subtle waves of curls.

The creature felt a powerful longing as he beheld her. Caution and the remembrance of the De Lacey’s and the villagers he met at the beginning of his life made him leery of all, but this did not stop the creature. With trembling fingers, he reached out and moved a curl from her face. The feel of her soft cheek pressed against his fingers as he brushed away the lock of her hair nearly brought him to his knees. Georgia murmured as she moved in her sleep. Instinctively, the creature backed from her.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. He knew then that she was awake and actively seeking him out in the darkness. “Stay with me.”

“Go back to sleep, Georgia,” he whispered gently. Instead of obeying him, she sat up in bed and peered into the silent void of night.

“You can see me, can’t you?” she asked. His voice croaked out a response, causing him to wince. “That isn’t fair.”

He smiled to himself. “What isn’t?”

“You know what.”

Her feet slipped from beneath the covers. Hands reached out, searching for him. The creature backed away from her as she drew closer. She stumbled slightly and in an instant, he caught her.

“Georgia, please, sit down. You cannot see. You might fall and someone will come. We’ll be found and I—”  _ Will be killed and your screams would fill the air. _

The fear in his voice was endearing, but she would not endanger her friend, not when she felt so safe in his arms. “You’ll always be here to catch me, though.”

Her hands ran up his arms towards his shoulders. He stopped her just before she reached his neck. The evidence of her disappointment was clear, but he noticed her delight when his fingers looped around hers.

“You are very tall, my poet. I don’t think I could reach your face if you stood up straight.” She paused a moment. “Why are you so afraid of me touching and seeing you?”

He tried to draw away from her, but she held on fast. “Victor made me. . . hideous. You would be so very frightened of me.”

“Did you have a duel with him? I cannot imagine how he walked away unscathed. Did he cheat?” But she did not wait for his response. Georgia brought his hands to her face, he obliged reluctantly. She then pressed his palms against her cheeks and felt him shudder. “I need you, my poet. I need you to trust me.”

He trembled and fought the urge to kiss her. He could see her quiver, but not in fear. What a curious thing. She flattened his hands against her face and felt his warmth seeping into her. Oh, how he desired her!

“Will you kiss me?” She asked suddenly. 

Had she read his mind? He was at a loss for what to do next. Of course, he wanted to kiss her, but what then? “No,” he replied sadly.

If she was upset, she didn’t show it. “I thought not. Are you hungry? I have left food and tea on the table. I think the tea has cooled too much.”

“I have never had tea, so I would not know how it ought to taste. Yes, dear Georgia, I am hungry.” As he went to remove his hands from her face she placed a feathered kiss against his flesh. Without thinking, he brought her hand to his lips. The taste of her was indescribable and he felt himself linger over the softness of the top of her hand. Her gasp brought him back to reality. He immediately released her.

“My beloved poet! What a gift you’ve give me.” She was happy, truly happy! “Lead me to my bed and then enjoy your meal. I know you are shocked by your own actions, so I shan’t bother you again this night.”

His hand reached for hers once more as he guided her back to her bed. “You could never bother me. Rest and I shall answer a few of your questions.”

Georgia’s own grip on him was firm but gentle. Her heart was elated by the courage he had shown and she knew just how terrified by his actions he was. With hard work and the lessons from a flirtatious former suitor studying to be a doctor, Georgia discerned the rate of his pulse. It was quick, though not as quick as hers. Certainly, though, it was faster than it had been before. She found it slower than it ought to have been, but she knew he was an enigmatic creature; something almost faerie-like.

His careful hands led her to her soft mattress. Her lithe hand felt warm between his large ones. The creature was reluctant to let her go, but when he did she did not protest or cling to him. He left her smiling on the bed as he went to the table to eat.

The lid he lifted from his food was the color of lacquer, but to him, it was as fine as silver or gold. He placed the lid on the other end of the table and sat down. There were several slices of pheasant covered in cranberry jam. a side of what used to be steamed cauliflower, a slice of bread, and a few grapes. He was taken aback by the sight. Her giggle pierced the still air.

“You like it then?”

“This is a feast, generous Georgia!” He wanted everything in that instant. “Before I start, I will answer your original question: Frankenstein and I did not duel. If we had, he would be lucky to be alive and whole.”

She said nothing as she contemplated his words.

He chose the cold tea first. The liquid was sweetened with honey, something he had only tried once in his brief life. There was a hint of something he didn’t know, but it smelled sweet. The nectar was calming and he enjoyed it. What would it have been like hot? It was a dream likely to never become a reality.

“What is in the tea?”

“Vanilla,” she replied, her longing to sleep was becoming evident, but she continued to fight it. “Have you had it before?”

He answered her in turn. “No.”

“You are quite strong but agile,” she assessed. “Not buff like a butcher or timberman, but lithe like a swimmer!” She finished in a rushed. “I haven’t seen many of them, though.”

Her laughter was melodious, but it was deceiving. Though he did not know it then, her laughter was a mask for the grief she had yet to share with him. He was ignorant to that pain and perceived only the mask of it: her laugh was beautiful and strong.

“You are an expert in the forest, but you sound well educated. How did you come to wander the night? Where is your family.”

This question was not one he wanted to answer, but he promised. Before he spoke he stuffed the pheasant into his mouth to stall. How could he explain any of this to her? “My family,” he answered, attempting to swallow his food. “I was taken in more or less. My father abandoned me. I found a family and from them, I learned how to speak, read, and write. Their patriarch was a musician himself, he played the violin.”

Her face fell. “Your father sounds cruel. What of your mother?”

_ My father is the cruelest.  _ The question about his mother haunted him. Could he consider Elizabeth as his mother? She would reject him undoubtedly after his crimes against her family. It was agonizing for him to tell her he had no mother, but he did.

“My mother,” she started suddenly, “died when I was very young. And my father—” 

He had no warning and no true understanding of how to help her. Watching her cry was the most terrifying moment of an already terrifying existence. He put his fork down and walked to the foot of her bed. Cautiously, he reached out and grasped her leg.

“— He died about a year ago and my life has been. . . turbulent.” Suppressing her tears she smiled in the darkness. “Let us discuss this another night.” 

A smile was present in her voice, but so was the lump of emotion she was trying to swallow. There was a powerful connection between them and it became evident to both when the creature went to remove his hand from her leg and her hand went to meet him. Their fingers touched for only a second before he pulled his hand away. Her touch sent a jolt of joy through him. Why had this never happened before? He wondered. What was he feeling?

“Goodnight, sweet poet.”

“Goodnight, dear Georgia.” He answered tenderly. He stayed for several minutes more to finish eating and to listen to her soft snoring. When he finished, he stood, approaching her door, but just before he opened it, he placed a kiss on Georgia's brow. The door swung open and he used his own secret way to pass undetected.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

Every evening he went to her, she would always have some treat or drink ready for him. There would be pastries or fruit or entire meals waiting to fill his eager belly. He wondered, though, if the servants ever found her behavior odd. Georgia confirmed that they did think it strange and offered her more food at dinner. The creature, however, pleaded on behalf of their secrecy, that she stop. Instead, they turned their evening meetings into treasured and unchaperoned dates. They would talk for hours until Georgia, so overcome with exhaustion, would fall asleep against her will. Although the creature kept himself hidden in darkness, they both sought out the other with shy glances and quiet smiles. This communion was his greatest achievement, or so he thought.

Georgia was always full of questions, always thirsting for knowledge. She was respectful, an echo to her restrictive upbringing, but determined. Each night she would ask if he would kiss her and he would decline. There was no anger or scorn from being jilted, she simply moved on to the next question. Her thoughts were thorough and she seemed to see him as a difficult song, one she would have to practice and mess up many times before she got it right.

To him, she was an escape from his sins and the wretched loneliness he had been forced to endure. She was his sky with hair like a sunset and skin like the distant moon, peppered with stars. Her skin was smooth and untarnished, unlike his. He felt a growing desire to touch her.

“You remind me of the faerie stories Nettie and my governess used to read me when I was a girl. You have a gentlemanly air about you, but there is something primal and strong in you. Like a faerie king or forest sprite. Did you stray from your kingdom, milord?” She asked in a fit of giggling.

“Do people enjoy this talk from you, Georgia?” He asked. Fairies seemed to be regarded as something evil or tricky in this part of the world. He wondered why she would make such a comparison. 

“No. Many regard it as nonsense or pagan speech. They’re only stories. Part of me believes in mythical things. Were they not based on something real? Are you not something real?”

He conceded the issue. Surely, he was a mythical being, but he was not beautiful, only terrible.

She was sitting on her bed staring into the darkness from the drawn curtains. After a moment, she turned to him. “Something happened in England,” she informed him. The reason why she was so far from home. “A rumor was started, about my father, but this rumor is, in reality, a truth we tried to keep secret. When people heard, they ended their connection to myself and Sir John. My inheritance, which was supposed to be mine until I married where it would then become my husband’s, is being withheld. My claim to it is being contested by my aunt. To her, this rumor— truth— negates my claim to my property.”

Her companion struggled to understand the complicated rules surrounding her wealth and position. He recalled what Eva, Agatha, Felix, and their father endured in the cottage where he spent the first portion of his life. They had fallen so far in society and endured exile. Was he right to assume that Georgia was now resigned to this fate? He wondered, then, if this was the reason she had told no one about him.

Each step he took towards her was slow and hesitant, but he needed to be close to her. “What does your aunt have to do with your money? Is it not yours?” He stopped as she tried to explain, but could not without revealing the rumor. “Is there someone who wants to marry you, but cannot without the promise of your money?”

She sat straight in her bed. “No. There is no one, my poet.”

He resumed his path towards her. How could it be that no one was pursuing her? They would be foolish not too. If he were handsome and not cursed by the carelessness of Victor Frankenstein then he would marry her that instant. She would never suffer from the whispers behind her back. 

“My darling poet,” she cried with the evidence of her despair. He sat close to her on the bed. “I’ve been abandoned by nearly all my close friends. A handful remain and most of them live in this house.” 

Her hand reached out for his. A moment's hesitation from him delayed his own touch. The tips of their fingers brushed each other. Georgia took a deep breath and laced her fingers with his. Her other hand reached up to his shoulder, he flinched, but did not move away. Georgia then prepared herself for what she would do next.

Pushing her anxiety away, Georgia leaned towards her companion. Her lips found his and she felt her mind explode. He froze, torn between wanting to run and scooping her into his arms.

“Georgia,” he gasped, tearing away from her. “We cannot.”

“Why?” she asked, her hurt stung him. “Do you— do you not want me?” Her eyes went wide. “Is it my poverty?”

Poverty? “How could you think that? I -I would never abandon you! Certainly not because of your financial state.” 

“Then why are you rejecting me? Why do you visit me each night? I care about you. I—”

“Georgia, don’t be impudent.” He didn’t mean the words he spoke, but he was helpless to take them back, helpless to stop her reaction.

“Impudent! Impudent. I love you! I— you make me feel alive. Nothing bad will happen to me if you’re with me.”

He was frozen. His ribs felt tight, crushing the air out of him. The air from the open window was cool, but it did little to alleviate what he was feeling. “You love me?” 

Georgia’s face fell. “Yes,” she insisted.

He rose from the bed, Georgia followed, grabbing his hand. He turned and growled a deep, guttural growl before snatching his hand away. He backed towards the window, shifting the curtain just enough for a moonbeam to illuminate his neck. Georgia’s eyes fell on a large stitched scar that ran across his neck. Intersecting the scar was another one that traveled down beneath his rough looking clothes. They looked painful and careless. For a moment, Georgia stood still and her companion knew he could do nothing else.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” She asked, tears falling down her face as she drew closer to him.

“Georgia, I am a monster. You deserve so much better.” His voice was pleading, the anger she had heard moments ago was gone. “You have given me so much. My heart is full of love because of you.”

A cry audibly escaped her as she reached out for him. “My poet, my love, please. You deserve happiness. I can hear your pain, your sorrow, your loneliness. I listen, it is what I do.” 

Her hands trembled before him. The creature didn’t know what to do. How could he ever be with her? Words were trying to fight their way out of his mouth, but nothing came. Everything in his past told him he was meant to be denied all that he held dear. If he allowed this, he would lose her, he would lose all the humanity he had left.

“I make you happy, I know I do. We make each other happy. I am holding on by a thread, please don’t cut it.” Tears welled in her eyes and threatened to spill out.

The creature stepped back into the moonlight, just enough so that she could see the scars again. Both of his hands went out to meet hers. They were grasping onto a lifeboat clinging for dear life. They stood with their hands together for a long time. Georgia watched his chest rise and fall and wondered just how he had gotten his scars and what Victor had done to him.

“All right,” he said at last. He brought her closer to him and directed her hands to his face. 

His skin felt rough under her fingertips. It wasn’t supple or elastic in the way that hers was, rather, it felt dried and stretched. After a moment, she grew accustomed to it, the odd cross between life and death although she did not realize that was what it felt like. There were no words that could accurately express the sensations, he felt otherworldly to her. His face was warm in her hands, and his muscles moved with feeling: twitching and tightening in response to the stimuli.

Her fingers moved like the sightless studying maps. She found that his jaw was well defined and traced the bone up to his ears where she tugged at them playfully. He whispered her name in response. When her moment of teasing was over, her fingers pressed his cheeks before converging on his nose. Oblivious to the blemishes of his cheeks she followed the line of his straight and proud nose. At the tip, the flesh rounded, softening the point of the feature that seemed too aristocratic for him. His nostrils flared slightly at her curious touch.

Next, she dropped her fingers to his lips. They parted only a bit as she swept across them. They were supple, but not defined. Together, his lips pressed a kiss to her fingertips. She blushed profusely and gently pressed her fingers firmly against his lips.

“Don’t distract me, my poet,” she chided playfully. Her fingers then traveled up to his eyes and edged up to his brows which were thick and full and shielded his eyes.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Blue,” he replied. “But they do not sparkle like yours. They are glassy, watery.”

“And far superior to my own.”

“Only in the ability to see, not in beauty,” he countered.

But her hands would not be delayed, there was still much that she needed to  _ see _ . She came to his forehead and found another crude scar slashed at his hairline. Her fingers gently caressed the raised wound. To oblige her, he bent lower so that she no longer petered on the tips of her toes. The scar ran about two inches along his hairline. Running her fingers through his hair she brought his head close to her and kissed his scar. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Georgia’s fingers curled around his mass of hair. The tresses fell to his shoulders and were soft to the touch, but unkempt and unruly. There was chaos to this creation, but she felt no compulsion to put order to it. She wanted to exist within it. The notion frightened her almost as much as it did him.

She leaned her head back and lifted her jaw up, bringing her lips to his. To her surprise, he responded. Their lips melted together and her companion cradled her face in his large hands as he tasted the mouth he had desired for so long. To her he tasted like honey from the evening’s tea and the two of them passed the flavor back and forth.

As he leaned over the woman he had once hated he felt all the animosity and hatred for humanity fade. It was replaced by a sense of kinship, a duty to protect this race of creatures. Her lips were pulling out all of his grievances against humans and his creator and melting it like butter. Why had he not met her first? He would have known the language of music and happiness. He would have known the love he had always longed for.

When they parted, Georgia continued to plant a trail of kisses along his jaw before he stood to his full height, towering above her. His heart battled against his ribs. There was a fire in him, a desire so strong he felt like he would burst. A powerful longing came over him. His hands yearned to touch her smooth flesh and his tongue wanted to taste the hidden parts of her.

“I must go,” he said at last.

“You’ll return tomorrow?”

“I-I don’t know.”

There was a pause between them. Georgia knew why he stopped, she was glad he had, she would have given herself to him that night. He had far more discipline than she did. She wanted him to return, but she also wanted him in the way that she could not give, not yet anyway.

“Did you find Frankenstein?”

His peace flashed to anger. “Yes. He left for your homeland. It is there that his father hopes he will recover.”

“Will he?” She asked. By her tone it was clear that she did not care to know the status of Frankenstein, she wanted her companion’s thoughts.

“Not likely. He is plagued by his own insanity; the memories of his injustices. Do not tarnish a perfect night by discussing a person who has wronged us both.”

Before he left, he swept her into his arms and delivered her to her bed. He pulled her covers away and set her upon the mattress as gently as he could. She reached up as he released her and touched his face. He flinched like a frightened bird before pulling completely away from her. 

“Go to sleep, Georgia.”

“Don’t be angry with me.”

He said nothing as he disappeared into the darkness. Who was he fooling? She would hate him for all that he had done. The nameless creature ran back to his hidden cave where he wept to himself well into the night. He loved Georgia Daniels until his heart broke at the thought of never truly having her.

The desire to ruin Victor rekindled in his heart, but he pushed it aside. Was he a man or a fiend as Victor believed? Was he worthy of loving Georgia? If he ended Victor he would lose Georgia. But as he sat in a conflict of thoughts and emotions his clever mind devised another plan. He would succeed with Georgia where he had failed with the De Laceys. He dried his eyes and with renewed determination he hardened his face for the future he was taking for himself. 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Georgia sat at her piano, staring at the keys. Apart from her dresses and a few books, the instrument was all that belonged entirely to her. No one could take it away, but now she didn’t want it. If the keys moved on their own she wouldn’t be surprised, she would, instead, be grateful for the distraction. Each time her eyes fell on the piano she heaved with a dramatic sigh.

“If you want attention, Miss Georgia, you’ve got it,” said Nettie as she sat on the sofa next to Georgia. “What is the matter?”  
“Nothing,” replied Georgia with another sigh. She carelessly tapped a few more keys.

Nettie adjusted her dress and opened the book in her hand. “Is it your friend? The one that comes to visit you at night.”

Georgia’s fingers slipped, causing her to hit a cluster of black and white keys. The dissonance ripped through the gloom of her cheerless day. “H-how do you know about him?” 

“You just told me,” she answered simply. “I suspected it for a while, but then I heard you arguing with someone a few nights ago. Georgia, what were you thinking?” She hissed in a low whisper. 

Georgia flushed. “I was thinking I had finally found someone who accepted me as I am, as I am possibly nothing now. He cares for me, or I thought he did.”

Nettie paled and tossed her book to the side. “You didn’t give up your virtue did you?”

“No!” snapped Georgia. “He would never have left me if I had. . . . I just don’t know what has happened to him. I know he loves me.” 

“He was probably caught sneaking into some other girl’s room and was shot while trying to take her.”

Nettie’s tone was almost in jest, she needed Georgia to see the foolishness of her actions. The young pianist thought she already lost all that there was to lose, but there was still further for her to fall. Was she that naive to have not thought about the consequences of her actions?

Georgia covered the keys of her piano and turned to face her longtime friend and caretaker. “I do not care for propriety, nor the stringent rules that govern our lives. I do not care for the whispers behind my back, they’ve done enough damage to me already, what more could they do? And marriage!” She exclaimed, raising to her feet. “What dowry have I? A few hundred pounds a year? What little Sir John can spare? I loath the people of my rank! And my—” 

Tears streamed down her face and the hue of her cheeks went from white to red. The beauty of her womanhood wilted into a childlike demeanor, full of passion and impudence. “They scheme and scorn. If you aren’t dressed the way they want then up go their pointed noses! Oh! And ‘she’s got the skill of a concert pianist, but the vocal training of a country bumpkin. She’ll be great for entertaining the footman’s friends!’ It’s all rubbish, Nettie. My God! How they talk.”

Georgia finally stopped pacing and dropped herself onto the sofa next to Nettie and wept into her arms. “You’ll get through this, Georgia, love. I needed to know what your decision would be. I have a confession.”   

Georgia sat up and stared at her. She quickly wiped away her tears and demanded to know what Nettie needed to say.

“I met your poet.”

Glass seemed to shatter in her mind or maybe it was the sound the earth made when it stopped moving? Her breathing slowed or did it just feel that way? What was she feeling? Every single sound echoed loudly in her ears. “W-what did you say?”

Her heart sank into her stomach and dread filled her to the point that she felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

Nettie smiled sweetly. “The least time you saw him, dear. I cornered him and spoke with him. He hasn’t abandoned you, my dear, he wants to deserve you. I think that is why he left”

Georgia returned to her seat. There was a mercilessly pounding in her head. Nettie knew her poet and he knew Nettie. Then where was he? Why would he not return to her? Her temper flared inside. Of course he abandoned her, he must have realized how difficult life with her would end up being. And what had he disclosed to Nettie? The past he so ardently kept hidden from her? Georgia fumed silently and the tears returned with burning pain.

Nettie then began her tale.

 

_ The creature shut the door to Georgia’s room and slinked along the wall of the hallway. Despite his stature, he was quiet and agile. His acute hearing gave him ample warning of the wandering servant. When he heard them coming he would duck behind a curtain or hide in the shadows. He, of course, heard Nettie, he just hadn’t expected her to be hiding as well or outwit him. Not even a moment out of his hiding spot and she had him cornered. In her hand was a lantern and she saw all of him. Her eyes grew wide with terror, but she never screamed.  _

_ It took all of her strength to simply greet him. He responded with almost as much terror. Pulling herself together, Nettie asked him who he was. As she continued bombarding him with questions she became more confident in herself; she was unrelenting in her determination to keep Georgia safe. Nettie directed him to a parlor where she conducted her interview. _

_ The creature savored the encounter; this was the first true encounter he had with mankind. He could see that Nettie was afraid of him, but she was giving him the opportunity to appeal to her kind the way he had always hoped. _

_ They sat for only a few hours discussing Georgia and what he could do for her. He learned so much about his English love in just one night. She was not so enchanted with wealth and material as he previously believed, and she grieved little over those friends who had so cruelly abandoned her in England. As he listened to Nettie revealing the beautiful details of Georgia he came to understand how alike in spirit they were. Georgia, however, was not prone to the violence the way that he was.  _

_ But as they neared the end of their conversation, Nettie made it clear what he needed to do. If he was to win Georgia’s hand in marriage, he would need money. Nettie, however, failed to understand his plans. She believed the matter to be over, in her mind, it was a task he would never be able to complete. _

 

“So you sent him away,” she accused. Georgia felt her heart shattering. Her lip trembled. “You used his love for me to send him away. I thought you cared for me, but you have only added to my misery. The only way I can save myself from the gutter now is to marry up. I’ve lost love and I am now condemned to a loveless marriage. Nettie, you have broken my trust.”

Nettie frowned at her. “Miss Georgia, don’t be dramatic. I did this for you. What kind of life would you have had with him? He’s not fit for public. Surely you’ve seen him!”

Georgia stood and paced anxiously by the piano. Her hands went to her ears as a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes. “I’m not hearing this. This is a nightmare. He will come. He’ll wake me up. This is- this is not happening.”

“He is gone, Miss Georgia,” Nettie stated. Her arm reached out in an effort to beckon Georgia to her.

“We are finished!” Shrieked Georgia suddenly, causing Nettie jump. Her face was bright red, blotched with bitter anger. Her breathing was ragged from the sudden freedom she allowed her emotions. “This is not the tantrum of a child, this is the fury of a heartbroken woman! We were friends and you betrayed me!”

Before Nettie could say anything in response, Georgia fled the room in a hurricane of emotion. The door to her bedroom shut loudly and was promptly locked. When Nettie felt that her nerves were calm enough she went to Georgia’s room only to hear the muffled tears of the girl she’d known for twenty-three years. It broke her heart to hear Georgia in so much pain. Although Nettie felt anguish over her actions, she had acted in Georgia’s best interest. The girl would realize it and thank her for it some day. She did what she needed to do to protect someone she loved; she did what anyone would have done in her place. Hadn’t she?


	11. Chapter 11

 

_ Eight Months later. _

 

Geneva was horribly cold and grey. With the advent of winter, the sun and the pleasant weather enjoyed during the summer was gone. The bleakness, however, was felt constantly at the house of Sir John. Servants polished the silver ten times a day, Georgia practiced the same scales every day before staring blankly at her piano, and Nettie had read thirty books and knitted what she said was a tablecloth. The atmosphere was entirely mirthless.

Every so often, to Georgia’s delight, she would receive a letter, most of them from Elizabeth. At times, Elizabeth seemed optimistic about Victor’s recovery, then another letter would come and her writing would be overcome with despair. Georgia would muster the courage to respond to her friend despite her great heartache. But what words of comfort could she offer the other?

The song her poet had given her would be played once a week on the weekly anniversary of their last night together. She would play it once with a mistake or without. When she finished, she would stare at his handwriting and weep. Her bloodshot eyes would devour the Wordsworth poem written in her poet’s crude handwriting and her heart would heave.

During the long months of her grieving for love lost, Georgia had lost a considerable amount of weight. Her clothes hung on her loosely and more than once a servant would rush in to pull her clothes together and keep her modest. Her naturally pale skin became a ghostly white and her eyes grew dark and sunken. Her hair was lackluster and limp, she was a shadow of the woman she once was. It grieved those that loved her to see her in such a pitiful state.

At noon Georgia found Nettie sitting in the parlor, mulling over a cup of tea. The months of boycott had taken their toll on her as well. Setting the small porcelain cup aside, Nettie stood when Georgia entered. The two women looked at each other for a moment, but neither truly knew what to say to the other.

“Miss Georgia!” Exclaimed Nettie. Her brown eyes twinkled with unshed tears. At her hips, her hands fidgeted. She was half a spring away from embracing the girl.

“Please, Nettie. Sit.”

Nettie complied and Georgia joined her at the table. They sat quietly and uncomfortably, letting the silence pour over them. 

“I’m sorry, Nettie,” started Georgia. Her lip quivered slightly. Nettie, however, burst into tears. “I have behaved childishly. I—” she paused, trying to find the words “— understand why you did it. I think it is time to find me a husband. I suspect that Sir John will return with news from England shortly. It is best to get this matter resolved.”

“Oh, Miss Georgia! If I could undo it all, I would. You will find happiness after all that you’ve been through.”

Georgia set her hand upon the table and Nettie took hold of it immediately. They muttered apologies and wept at the anguish they caused the each other.

“Miss,” came a meek voice from the door of the small room. A servant entered the room carrying a large package. “This has just arrived for you, Miss Daniels.”

Georgia looked to Nettie for an answer and when none was to be had, Georgia took the large package. On top of the bundle was a letter addressed directly to her from— 

“— Who is it from, Georgia?” Asked Nettie urgently. She was near to ripping open the package if Georgia didn’t do it herself in a moment.

“Um, a Monsieur Rossignol of Venice, Italy. I thought we were fish out of water: English living abroad in Switzerland. What is a Frenchman doing in Italy and how does he know me?”

She tore open the letter and the finest penmanship greeted her. Her jaw fell in shock for the letter was completely composed in English.

 

_ My warmest and most humble of salutations Miss Georgia Daniels! _

 

_ Although you shall doubtlessly find this letter and the contents of the accompanying package to be strange, let me first explain myself before you come to a decision. I have recently come into a large fortune, but I have little skill in the ways of  the wealthy class. It was through mutual friends who, at present, must remain a secret, that I first heard of you. The charge of Sir John Lafoy is renowned for her public delicacy and charm. And as I am told, her music. You are well spoken of by the people that love you. As such, I have an interest in entertaining your time if you would be so kind as to allow it. _

_ My rise started in the salvaging of lost goods in Venice and many other waterways in the marvelous country of Italy. During my travels of saving lost treasures for others, I came upon my own. Nothing could have prepared me for the excitement this good circumstance has bestowed me. I have the means to host you, Sir John, and any whose company you wish to bring. _

_ Upon Sir John’s approval, you and your company shall be escorted to Venice. You shall be housed in an apartment in the esteemed Locanda del Fiore di Venezia. I shall see to it that you want for nothing. _

_ As to the package you have received, it is my great desire to throw a masquerade ball. The Venetians and French do love their masks. It is it's the best way to make my presence known to the public in Venice since I possess birth defects that are regarded as unsightly. My ploy is now exposed, and I wish to indulge in good company. I trust the gown is to your liking. I await you most eagerly. The ball is set for November 22nd.  _

 

_ Your humble admirer and friend, _

_ Monsieur Rossignol _

 

“Nettie, the package! Open it!” Cried Georgia with wild excitement. She brushed away the ache in her heart. Nettie balked at her in response, but tore back the wrappings and opened the box they hid. Her breath hitched. “Is it a gown?”

“And a mask. Georgia, what is this about?”

For the first time in many months, Georgia smiled a smile that reached her eyes. A phantom of the girl she had been returned. “We’re going to Italy.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

“So this is  _ Locanda del Fiore di Venezia! _ ” exclaimed Sir John as they were led to their Venetian apartment. He drew back his hood and gawked at their temporary housing. Windows lined two sides of the main parlor. One side overlooked a courtyard, the other overlooked a waterway.

Once inside, they brushed off the cold and took in the sight of their home. The floor was made of dark polished wood; the top half of the walls were painted a deep blue and garnished with gold flecks of paint, the bottom half of the wall was made of marble and from the marble came carved out columns spread every two yards for support. There were two fireplaces in the great room, a sofa upholstered with a light yellow fabric, a chaise, and several recliners. At the back of the room was card table and several feet from it was pianoforte made of mahogany. 

Two doors stood next to each other at one corner of the room. One door led to their bedrooms, the library, and the finest washroom any of them had seen. The other door led to the servants rooms and connected to the kitchen and other passageways that brought the building together. Nettie declared immediately at their arrival that she was tired, proceeded towards the servant’s quarters. Without a moment's hesitation, Sir John ordered her to stop and informed her that she was to sleep at the inn as a guest as per the requests of Georgia, Monsieur Rossignol, and himself.

Satisfied with her lot, Nettie helped Georgia to her room. “What an adventure we’re in for, Miss. Makes me glad we left England.”

“Will you stay here with me, Nettie? I do not wish to be alone. My thoughts are turning dark.”

“Of course, I’ll stay, dear. What do you mean?”

Georgia sat and removed her shoes and stockings. “My thoughts go to him. I wonder if he is alive and if he is well. I wonder if he has been trying to get back to me from wherever he went and if he is looking for me. Would he be hurt by my coming here?” She asked.  _ Would he be here? _

Nettie unlaced Georgia’s outer dress and helped her into her nightgown.

“I ought to tell you not to go down to that party, Georgia, but I wonder about it myself. When he left me he seemed broken, but there was something brewing in his mind. He risked death by acting as he did, but he did it anyway. And he never hurt you— not when he was still around. I wonder if he has been in as much agony as you.”

They both climbed into the bed, forgetting their many months of querling, and resumed their old pattern of two friends gossiping in the night. But where had her poet gone? Would he come back for her if she decided to marry their mysterious host? Her heart was torn in two and her mind was at a loss. She wanted her poet, but this new stranger was offering her things she had only dreamt of.

 

****

Sir John was the first to awaken in the apartment and upon entering the parlor he found food and coffee waiting for him. He also found a strange man dressed in a black jacket with gold buttons that ended at his waist, black, formal trousers completed the look. He stood erect when Sir John entered.

“Buongiorno, Signor Lafoy! My name is Bernardo Carlozzi. Signor Rossignol hired me as your translator. He is most eager to know if Signorina Daniels and Signora Blankenship’s gowns fit.”

“In this weather?” Cried Sir John. Beyond the window, it was raining and grey clouds sat like a dreary blanket over the city. “He wants them out in this?”

“Signor Rossignol desires nothing but their happiness. He has sent over cloaks for the three of you to make the weather more bearable. And the seamstress is but two streets away. Transportation will be waiting for you. Shall I have Signorina Daniels dress sent to the seamstress?” 

Sir John nodded and called for his servant, Delia, to wake Georgia and Nettie. “Will Mr. Rossignol be offended if I hire my own translator?”

Bernardo bowed his head slightly, causing his small, round glasses to slide down his nose. “Signor Rossignol encourages it, but I should like to inform you that I am the only translator who speaks English in Venice this season. There are many who speak French.”

“Fair enough,” conceded Sir John. He made a point of expressing his annoyance to Bernardo. “What can you tell me of Signor Rossignol?” Asked Sir John as he poured himself a coffee. “Why is he so interested in Signorina Daniels?”

If Sir John’s tone bothered Bernardo, he didn’t show it. Bernardo seemed to expect the interrogation of his boss and was prepared to answer all questions. “As the letter he sent to Signorina Daniels states: Signor Rossignol and the lady share mutual friends who esteemed her to Signor Rossignol. He was quite taken with her.”

The door in the corner swung open and through it came Nettie and Georgia, both dressed in preparation for the chill beyond their room. How long had they been up, he wondered, they usually took far too long. 

Bernardo introduced himself once more and helped both women to their seats. To Georgia, he handed a folded and sealed note which she promptly tucked away in the folds of her dress. It did not go unnoticed by either Nettie or Sir John.

“As I was saying,” continued Bernardo. “Signor Rossignol has an express interest in the lady, he will see to all her needs.”

Georgia blushed and fidgeted nervously before slipping a grape into her mouth.

“Signor Rossignol is a good man, but not too social. He is generous, though, so the people of Venice overlook his solitary life. He saved several poorer families by putting them to work preparing for the ball.”

Sir John sat back in his chair and proceeded to brush his mustache. “How did Signor Rossignol come into wealth? And Since he is so interested in Miss Georgia we should expect to meet him soon?”

“Soon, I believe, Signor. But Signor Rossignol does not convey all his plans to me. I am simply here to make your stay a comfortable one.” Bernardo shuffled his feet, he was unaccustomed to standing for long periods of time. “He was hired by a merchant, Signore Pertoli of Lombardia. Signor Rossignol recovered Signore Pertoli’s goods— from a shipwreck, I believe. Signor Rossignol was hired by several other men, but Signore Pertoli was so taken with him that he signed his wealth over to Signor Rossignol just before his death five months ago. Signor Rossignol is an honest man. Not a single man who hired him had anything negative to say about his work.”

Sir John seemed content, but he went quiet, mulling over all that Bernardo told him. He was suspicious of Rossignol but doubted that anyone in Venice would give him any other details. Instead, he consented to sending Nettie and Georgia off with Delia and Bernardo. Sir John remained behind, sifting through the apartment in an attempt to uncover all that he could about their host.

 

***

 

“Miss Georgia, that gown is brilliant on you. Monsieur Rossignol chose a very unusual color for you. Pink silk over gold! I feel like a thief just for looking at it,” declared Delia behind Signora Pausini, the seamstress.

While the trio of English women talked excitedly about Georgia and Nettie’s gowns, the latter of which was significantly less grand, Signora Pausini fussed in a rambling of indecipherable Italian. It was obvious by her tone and tisking at Georgia that she was upset. What she was saying they could only guess without Bernardo to translate. However, with Signora Pausini’s incessant jabs at Georgia’s frame, they came to understand that the Italian was distressed by Georgia’s size.

Georgia’s depression had taken a toll on her body, reducing her to a hollowed out girl. She looked better than she had before the dress arrived, but this was difficult to convey to Signora Pausini. 

The seamstress tugged at Georgia’s arms and frowned at her waist.  _ “Signor Rossignol non sarà contento! Cosa si può fare?”  _ She crossed one arm under the other and pressed her other hand against her temple. _ “Ti piacciono i dolci, la Signorina Daniels? Ho biscotti. Togliere l’abito e vieni mangiare. Avremo un caffé troppo.” _

When they did nothing but stare at Signora Pausini she gestured wildly for them to remove the gowns and began unlacing Georgia herself. Once free of their gowns the four of them sat in the back parlor of Signora Pausini’s shop. She continued speaking quickly in Italian and pointed to the cookies set on a small table for them. When Georgia ate a cookie Signora Pausini lit up, her countenance brightened and she seemed pacified long enough to rest just before another rush of Italian burst from her. She continued to mentioning Rossignol’s name several more times. Georgia, however, grew impatient and curious and turned her head to observe every aspect of the parlor.

Fabrics and textiles of all types of colors were put away both neatly and chaotically. Mannequins supported her other projects and her completed garments sat protected in bags hanging on the wall. The paint on the wall was a warm pink and the molding was dark purple; there was a quietness to the room around them that made Georgia forget how much Signora Pausini was talking. But as her eyes scanned the room she caught sight of the cuff of a coat. The cuff was a majestic gold colored fabric stitched into a royal blue material, the coat seemed to mimic the coats the military officers back in England. It was almost like the coat of a prince, but it far superior to what the Regent wore whenever he appeared in public.

Georgia’s eyes grew wide and she turned to Signora Pausini. “Is that Monsieur Rossignol’s?”

“ _ Signor Rossignol? Sí _ !”

Just as Georgia was about to ask if she could see it, Bernardo entered the parlor. He greeted them in his reserved, almost prudish manner. He entreated the three English women to depart Signora Pausini’s shop to return to their apartment. They thanked the talkative Italian and donned their thick cloaks and made their way back to the apartment. Although Delia was a servant and not invited to the ball, her grey eyes drank in the city of waterways and unique bridges. She even found herself at liberty to familiarize herself with Georgia and was, for the first time, included in the relationship between Nettie and Georgia. It would be an adventure she would never forget.

 

****

  
  


When Georgia was sure everyone, including Nettie had gone to bed she quietly crept into the parlor and lit a candle. She shivered in the night and convinced herself that she would simply appease her curiosity and then return to bed. She pulled out the note that Bernardo had given her earlier and read as carefully as she could in the small light.

 

_ Dear Miss Georgia, _

 

_ I am utterly smitten with you. It is brash— bold— according to some, and even imprudent to most of society. But I pride myself on being unconventional. This may all seem strange to you and I am glad, if this were normal I believe you would find me dull. _

_ I trust Bernardo is not too cold? For being one of the few people here who speaks English he seems to harbor no love for them. He will convey my letters to you. I ask that you send but one letter in reply as Sir John would not find them to be prudent. _

_ We shall meet at the ball, but not before. This must all sound like a fairytale to you and even to me at times, but my only desire is your happiness. I am completely at your mercy. _

 

_ Until the ball, _

_ forever yours, _

_ Rossignol _

 

Georgia read the note once more. Rossignol struggled to collect his thoughts and had not understood the impropriety of his actions. She blushed profusely, but she was not disturbed. Something about him seemed so familiar and she began to entertain an idea she kept entirely to herself.


	13. Chapter 13

In seven grueling hours Georgia would finally meet her benefactor. Nettie was almost as excited as she, but Sir John kept a cautious reserve. He certainly would not have been pleased with her if he knew of the other letters Monsieur Rossignol sent her or the one she sent that simply read:

 

_ Are you my poet? _

 

At breakfast, she was eager to see Bernardo and what he might have for her. To her annoyance, he arrived late to their apartment, causing her anxiety to fester. When he finally arrived he bowed to the three of them and offered his apologies.

Bernardo appeared flustered and annoyed but claimed it was due to the impending ball. There were additional tasks that he was obligated to see too, although he would not say what those obligations were. He straightened his tailcoat and then handed Georgia the note she was so eager to possess.

Georgia went to tuck the note away when Sir John stopped her. Finally exercising the rights he had over her as her guardian, he demanded to know what the note contained. Georgia blanched. What if the note was from her poet? She had not yet told Sir John of her nightly visitor, how could she? What if this note contained the reminders of their secret kisses? Their longing for one another? Worse yet! What if Rossignol wasn’t her poet and grew angry with her for her secret rendezvous?

Sir John, however, grew annoyed that she sat before him pale as a ghost and showing no signs of obeying him. He demanded once more to see the note, unaware of her internal struggle. His calm reserve was fading fast. Sir John had given more than he had ever expected and all he asked in return was that she honor her father’s memory and be happy. How could she then sneak around like a commoner, with no sense of propriety? How could she let a strange man lead her astray? It cut him deeply at the thought of how distraught her father would be.

“It simply says _ ‘I shall see you tonight at the ball’ _ . See for yourself, Sir John. Nothing else.” The taste in her mouth was bitter. She had one chance to write him and it was wasted. The mystery wouldn’t be solved until later. She cast her eyes to the window and frowned at the weak sun as Sir John read the note; night seemed so far away.

“So it does. For your blessed father’s sake, conduct yourself in the manner of a woman of your station. I will not—” he stopped for a moment to try and control his temper “— have you subjected to the open ridicule and gossip that I faced in England. Bernardo! These notes are to stop until Signor Rossignol presents himself to me and declares his intention for Georgia. And Georgia,” he added with a cold look. “You are to turn over his other notes. Any felicitations that I deem unpardonable will be the end of this trip and our relationship with Signor Rossignol.”

Sir John was angrier than she had ever seen him. Why would he turn from what Rossignol offered to them? She was willing to seal her heart for the Frenchman offering them safety and security. She was willing to pretend to love Rossignol when her heart belonged to her poet if it meant that Sir John would not be ruined and if it meant that they would be safe. Why was he unwilling to compromise? With as much wealth as Rossignol claimed to have the nobles in England would flock to Sir John, they might even forget what caused Sir John’s fall from grace.

“People say and do cruel things to others simply for a laugh, Georgia. I do not want you to be taken advantage of. I spent my life hiding and it brought you to ruin. I need honesty from Rossignol in order to honor your father’s wishes.”

Silence fell on the three of them before Georgia turned to Bernardo. “Signor, will you bring us tea? Coffee keeps us alert, but is ineffective in quieting our nerves.” 

Bernardo nodded, bowed, and left. The weight of the room he quitted was immense and threatened to bring their apartment down on the one below. There was nothing they could do to amend the past so their thoughts turned to the present. Georgia rose from her seat and left to collect the other notes Rossignol had written to her.

When she returned, she handed the precious letters to Sir John. As he read through Rossignol’s letters Georgia tried to eat and forget her anxiety. The poem from her poet was something Sir John could never see, even if it was composed by Wordsworth and not himself. But there was such a connection between her poet and Rossignol. Georgia’s hand trembled as she ate a biscuit.

“Keats? Georgia, there are three Keats poems in this letter. He has no shame in his flirtations. But now I understand why.” He was exasperated with her, but no longer angry.

 

_ “‘Miss Georgia, _

_ It is with the greatest despair that I confess my reasoning behind hosting a masquerade. I am unsightly and deformed. I have the greatest capacity for love and I am told that I am matched in this regard by you alone. Thus, fair maiden of the north! I have composed an evening of joy that I might present myself to you and your guardians. If, by Sir John’s leave, you accept me despite my deformities I shall be the happiest of creatures. But despair not, Miss Georgia, for if you decline me then we shall part amicably. _

_ I am at your service until you are returned to your home. _

 

_ Your humble servant, _

_ Rossignol’” _

 

Georgia’s heart knotted. Rossignol  _ had _ to be her poet. She was sick with desperation to know. Another biscuit found its way into her mouth. Sir John folded the notes and returned them to her. His anger subsided, but he looked to Georgia with an unnerving amount of sorrow. He would present her to Rossignol, but she was to remain near both Nettie and Sir John at all times. If Rossignol wanted a private audience with her, he would have one with him first. To this Georgia agreed, but her heartfelt conflicted beyond anything she could have imagined.

 

******

The sun, weakened as it was from the impending winter, descended beyond the boundary of sight. With night came the twinkling of lights and the voices of the ball’s unknown guests. They were gathered in the courtyard below and followed several halls that would lead them to their evening entertainment. From the windows, Georgia watched the array of colors, costumes, and masks as they embarked on their joyous journey.

Georgia touched her silken gown, an envy of the Rococo period. The underdress was a soft, silken pink, as was her corset. The outer dress was a brilliant gold and swept along the floor. Her sleeves fell in silken ruffles at her elbows. When her mask was tied to her face she felt majestic, almost like a queen. The looking glass revealed a creature unknown to her.

The mask concealed her forehead, nose, and half her cheeks beneath her eyes. The coloring was the same pale pink as her dress and was accented by raised, gold-plated wires that formed patterns against the frame. White lace offered one additional composition of the beautiful garnishment. Georgia felt beautiful and powerful. Whoever Rossignol was he was giving her an evening she wouldn't forget.

Excitement hung in the air like electricity after a storm. Georgia was eager to leave and learn the truth. She sighed as she waited for Sir John and Nettie to emerge from their rooms and out into the parlor. After what felt like an hour both Nettie and Sir John finally emerged in their masks and costumes. Sir John helped both women into their cloaks before leading them to the bustling scene below. Georgia’s excited left her petering on her feet, ready to race to her destination like an impatient child.

They followed the crowd past the courtyard of  _ Locando del Fiore di Venezia  _ to a building on the other side. An old theater, they were told, only recently converted to house parties such as the one they were attending. Both Nettie and Georgia were swept away by the colors and unfamiliar sounds around them. In the distance, they heard an orchestra playing songs neither had ever heard before. There was a roar of laughter and a sea of voices crying out in Italian delight, marveling at the splendor of their host. 

Shimmering golden light invaded their sight when they finally entered the ballroom. With their cloaks filed away, they felt only a breath of the cold air from the outside; they were surrounded by strangers, roaring fires, and a multitude of candelabras. Georgia, once again, felt more like a queen than a fallen gentry girl. She blushed profusely from the unashamed stares the other guests were giving her. She quickly became aware that she was the only one in gold and pink and to her horror, the only one dressed in light colors. There was an overwhelming display of deep colored gowns and suits. Rossignol made sure she stood out. But where was he?

“Signorina Daniels, Signora Blankenship, Signor Lafoy, are you ready to meet your host and benefactor?” Asked Bernardo who seemed to emerge from the air like a phantom.

Had they overlooked him? Or was she just that easy to find? Yes, she was easy to find.

He led them through the throngs of people and food that circulated the golden hall, to a smaller room where several merchants and other men were gathered. In one corner stood a man towering above those gathered around him. He was locked in a conversation with an Italian beauty dressed in a deep red gown. She seemed taken with the gentleman and continuously inched closer to him. He gave her his attention until Bernardo approached and his conversation with the Italian was finished. The tall man straightened and fixed his masked gaze on Georgia. She felt her cheeks go warm, this most certainly was Rossignol. He wore the blue coat with golden cuffs, the same one she saw at Signora Pausini’s shop. His mask, however, was not like anyone else’s. It hid his entire face, exposing only his chin so that he could speak easily. Gold paint and white lace added a gentleness to the mask that exuded a burning intensity.

“Signor Rossignol, may I present Signor—”

“Sir John Lafoy, Ms. Nettie Blankenship, and Miss Georgia Daniels, whom you are so intimately familiar with,” interjected Sir John. His mask was simple and neglected to hide his frustration.

Rossignol bowed to them and they returned the gesture. He then indicated that they were to follow him to a quieter room. They obeyed, to the disappointment of the Italian woman excluded from the party. As they followed behind Rossignol, Georgia noticed that binding his black hair was a blue ribbon she hadn’t seen in months.

“Nettie,” she hissed. The two leaned close to one another as they passed into a private study hidden from the view of the masquerade attendees. “It’s him! My poet.”

She nodded. “I believe it is. I am so sorry, Georgia, for what I put you through.”

Georgia, however, only wanted to hear her poet speak. She had to know. For months his voice lingered like a dimming fire in her mind, it needed to roar back to life. As she beheld him walking ahead of her, murmuring to Sir John, she felt the urge to take his gloved hand into hers. She wanted to untie the ribbon that bound his hair at the nape of his neck and remove the mask that kept his lips from hers.

Once they were all in the study, they sealed themselves in, Rossignol motioned for them to sit. Georgia could barely contain herself. She looked to Sir John, silently urging him to say his part. A layer of sweat formed on her hands. 

“Sir John, please, ask your questions,” invited Rossignol. His voice set Georgia’s heart on fire. It was him! The soft, odd inflection of his gentle voice cried out to her spirit.

“Your behavior has been immodest and Miss Georgia has suffered enough ridicule, she doesn’t need anymore. I will get to the point: what is your intention with her? And who is this mutual friend you speak of in your letters? Only the Italians have ever heard of you.”

Rossignol’s masked eyes fell on Georgia. They were blue; a perfect watery, glassy blue, just as he said they were. Her breath hitched and she felt her mind swirl. They were certainly unlike anything she had ever seen. But they looked upon her with such tender affection that she quickly forgot their oddness.

“My intentions are honorable although my actions may have been less so. I wish to marry Miss Daniels and I have sought to deserve her and prove that I could protect her. As to our friend, it is Frankenstein. I assure you that it is the patriarch and not the one who assaulted Miss Daniels.

“I was, however, at the time of our meeting, unable to offer her anything to make my deformities seem less apparent,” he ended hopelessly. Georgia felt a tinge of anger at his preemptive judgment of her.

“You are the one she has mourned for these many months then? You are well liked here, but I have never heard of you. How fortunate that the Frankensteins are indisposed and cannot speak to your character.”

Rossignol seemed annoyed by Sir John’s accusations but he hid it well. “I take no pleasure in the pain I have caused by leaving Miss Daniels. But I am not as unworthy as you believe; I have my documents, all confirming my rise to wealth to be true and honest. It is for Miss Daniels that I have opened myself up to the scrutiny of others. It is the wealth that I have acquired that has kept the vultures at bay. I offer Miss Daniels the same sanctuary.”

“He speaks the truth, Sir John,” offered Nettie. She became visibly shaken and the creature wondered for a moment if she would finally release her contempt for him. Would she scream and call him a monster? He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Georgia was the person he needed to focus on.

Rossignol’s voice was muffled slightly by the mask, but it carried a pleading and hopeful tone. “Miss Daniels, pray do not let the men of the world decide your fate. Speak,  _ mon perce-neige _ .”

A smile flittered across her face. Her mask shifted slightly from the movement causing her to readjust it. “Why the name ‘ _ Rossignol _ ’? Nightingale?”

A subtle laugh escaped him. “Is it not obvious? You are my muse and songbird. I chose it so that I could feel close to you. And—” he said looking back at Sir John through his mask. “— when society tossed me out I wandered the forests of central Europe. In the woods, I beheld the sweetest music of flittering song birds whose melodies filled me with courage and love of all that is beautiful.”

“A poet through and through,” declared Georgia. She radiated with joy. It took all that she had not to reach out her hands or fall at his knees. “Am I to understand, Monsieur Rossignol, that you are asking me to marry you?”

Beneath his mask he was pained and troubled. If she could see his face she would have been able to see the frown on his lips. This was the moment he had spent months planning for and he was filled with utter terror. “Yes, Miss Daniels. But before you answer I ask, by your leave, Sir John, that you dance with me. When we are finished we shall return to this room and you shall behold my disfigurement. If your heart is turned from me then I will release you from any promise and we shall part amicably.”

Georgia shook her head aggressively. “I could never turn away from you! I am not so fickle as society would have men believe.”

Rossignol smiled. How it hurt to control his desire for her! “My heart is warmed by your declaration, my lady. But I shall not deny you the option of rejection.”

“Then let us dance!” She cried, snapping to her feet. Her blood was rushing. Months of tortured aggravation and Georgia was ready for it to end.

Sir John nodded. He was far from approving of the situation, but he was interested to see how Georgia would respond to their host revealing his appearance. He knew Georgia wasn’t shallow and had been scorned several times before, but what would she do when the tables were turned? Would she scorn someone for something they could not help?

Rossignol rose to his feet after her and once again towered over everyone. He extended his hand to Georgia, her fingers wrapped around his hand, desperate to be touching them once more. Nettie and Sir John rose as well and followed behind Rossignol as he led Georgia out to the ball room.

The beautiful Italian watched as Rossignol led Georgia to the floor. She fumed quietly to herself but neither Georgia nor the creature built by Frankenstein noticed. Rossignol gestured to the orchestra to prepare a waltz. He lifted one of Georgia’s hands in his and placed his other hand upon her lower back. He pulled her close, causing Georgia to gasp and blush. Her free hand reached up to his shoulder where she nervously dusted his coat. He whispered to her and then motioned for the band to play. A shrill of notes sounded and Georgia soon found herself spinning in a waltz.

His dance skills were impressive and if she had not known him better she would have believed that he was actually an Italian, an exceedingly romantic one as well. Their dance was unlike anything she had known in England or in Switzerland. This was something gallant and bold, something a king would do, not a fallen gentry and an elusive stranger. It was like gliding and Rossignol was too proficient at the waltz to allow her to falter. Soon she found herself understanding the measures and beats of the music, thus cracking the code of the waltz.

Their circles were large and he made sure that each time he spun her their audience would have to retreat to avoid a collision. He wanted everyone to see them and know that they were together. The people of Venice would not look on him with scorn or disgust, but with admiration and joy. Was this what happiness was? He thought so as Georgia smiled and laughed throughout their dance. He wanted her to be happy and to remember the joy she was feeling in that moment if it all came to a horrible end.

When their waltz ended, another slower, longer waltz started. It was simpler than the one before and they were no longer left in solitude when Rossignol’s other guests joined them.

“I am sorry for what I put you through,” he whispered sadly. She gazed at him with a blank expression, not understanding what he meant. He then elaborated. “I’m sorry for deserting you. You’re so much thinner and paler. It grieves me to know that I did this to you.”

“I was heartbroken,” she replied after a while. “And I found out that Nettie had met you and sent you away. She and I have only recently resolved our issues. The abandonment I felt at my father’s death didn’t compare to what I felt when you left. But now,” she declared with a grin, “I have quite forgotten those feelings. You are forgiven as long as you never do it again.”

This he could consent too. “If you marry me, I never will. I will be with you until the end of time. I left because Nettie gave me an idea. I needed to prove myself capable of providing for you and I have. You need not fear poverty— even if you decline to marry me.”

Georgia clung to Rossignol. “How could you think I would say no to you? I love you. Beauty only grows with love.”

She could hear his gentle laughter. “You are an angel. If only you knew you converse with a devil. I love you so much that no amount of pain or anguish could ever make me stop loving you. But you must learn of my past, my origin, and my deeds.”

“Just the bad? Or the good as well?”

He looked down at her, her green gaze was more intense than the burning sun. If he could kiss her, then and there, he would. “I will tell you all that you need to know and want to know. As I said in my note: ‘I am at your mercy’.”

They continued their waltz despite the attention they were receiving. Rossignol narrated his journey to Italy and his utter agony at leaving the comfort she offered him, but it was necessary. In the beginning, he had been lonely and fearful of the welcome he would receive. But he hunted the markets, listening for an opportunity to appear. One did. A merchant had lost his goods further south of Venice in a careless shipwreck. His wealth remained intact, but no one would retrieve it for him; no one takes what Poseidon claims. To take it, one would be cursed. At this, Georgia laughed, she was surprised that such a belief existed amongst such renowned Catholics. But old pagan fears still dwelt in the populace.

The creature, of course, feared nothing of the likes. His life was as cursed as a life could be. He approached the merchant one evening and said he would take a small payment in return for retrieving the lost goods. The merchant agreed and the deal was struck. Rossignol took a boat out to the site and spent several days hauling all of it back to shore. When the task was completed and him near dead with exhaustion the merchant beheld his lost goods and Rossignol’s hideous form. The creature did not shy away from this point in his narration.

At first, the merchant was fearful but he quickly realized what sort of undertaking he had pressed upon such a stranger and he was moved with compassion. The merchant gave Rossignol his first mask and his first job, saving his life and securing his future.

“You have led a very interesting life without me,” she observed as he spun her once more around the dance floor.

“It would have been far better with you,” he answered. He could feel her heart pounding in her ribs. The flush of her chest told him that she was just as excited as he, but that would soon end.

“I want to see you, my poet.”

The end had now come and it was ushered in by the ending of their waltz. He bowed at the end of the dance and led her past the throngs of admirers to the study with Nettie and Sir John in tow. 

At the study’s door, Rossignol stopped and turned the two behind him. “Please, remain just outside. This is for Miss Daniels only.”

The agony he was enduring! Could they not dance forever and let that be their life? He led Georgia into the room and shut the door behind them.

Georgia went to one side of the study and untied her mask, she set it on top a sofa and waited for him. It seemed to both that it took forever for him to reach her. As he gazed upon her hungered face he could not help but believe her beauty was no less diminished.  

She reached for his hands and when he presented them she removed his gloves. The hands she had grasped so often were now hers to behold and she found them to be beautiful. Smooth as polished marble, their only oddness was the coloring that adorned them: a soft pale white with patches of faint red beneath layers of skin. The first time she saw his hands she mistook them for being grey. Georgia pressed his hand to her face. A tear fell from her eye and he quickly swept it away with his thumb. 

“I leave the rest to you,” he uttered, kneeling before her.

“I’m frightened,” she wept. 

His thumbs cleared away several more fallen tears. “Of me?” He asked, suddenly troubled by what he was asking.

Shaking her head she revealed that she feared what removing his mask would do to them. He encouraged her and placed her smaller hands on his mask. Her fingers went behind his head to untie it. Blood rushed past her ears and her heart thundered so violently in her chest that she wondered if she would faint. Her hands trembled as she removed the cover. Rossignol’s hand reached up quickly to catch the mask should she drop it.

It was off, he was utterly exposed to her. He hadn’t be so open since the De Laceys and Frankenstein had seen him, all of whom loathed what they saw. But Georgia said nothing. She neither moved, nor screamed, and he quickly realized she was holding her breath.

“Georgia, scream if you must, but breathe.” His face contorted in agony, making her release her breath and gasp. “Let me put the mask back on, Miss Daniels.”

Georgia was frozen. The face staring at her was pale and blotchy, as if struggling to darken with the plump hue of vitality. His glassy eyes stared at her from dark, sunken sockets. Like the thick branches of trees, his black eyebrows hooded his trembling gaze. The flesh she touched and kissed in the months past was bare before her. His skin was more elastic than it had been the first time she touched it; the odd crinkling of his flesh didn’t seem as evident. She could not quite discern how she felt about him. He wasn’t beautiful, not conventionally, but he wasn’t as hideous as he had led her to believe.

“No,” she said at last. Her face contorted in horror. The creature’s face dropped when he saw the familiar look.

“Only someone as ugly as I am could love me.” He lifted his mask. How he wished it could cover his eyes and conceal the tears of his now broken heart.** 

“No!” She gasped and pushed the mask back down. Georgia took his face in her hands. No longer able to stop himself, tears fell from Rossignol’s watery eyes. The look of horror was gone, replaced with joy, happiness, and amusement. “Georgia,” she said. “You may only call me ‘Georgia’, or ‘my love’. ‘My wife’. ‘Madame Rossignol’. But ‘Miss Daniels’ is no more.”

The creature felt light and his lips began trembling fiercely. “Do you mean—” 

“That I accept your proposal? Yes! And, my poet, you are not ugly. Different? Yes. But ugly? Never!”

He wept loudly; the relief he felt was immense. Georgia reached out and untied the ribbon holding his black hair at bay and took hold of the tresses. She moved closer to him and brought his lips to hers. There was a hungry desperation to the way his lips fit hers. He couldn’t stop and neither could she. Arms then reached around her waist and she was lifted into the air as he stood to his full height. He then spun her around. Her laughter filled the air as they momentarily broke from their kiss.

“You have done more for me than I could ever say. I will devote my life to making you happy.” He kissed her once more, savoring the taste of her flesh. All the anguish he had known from the first day of his creation faded like the remains of a dream. The villagers he stumbled upon when he first roamed, ignorant as a baby, was nothing more than a shadow. The De Lacey’s clung to his heart, but he felt them fading into memory. Georgia was now his world, his muse, and angel.

The image of the mate Victor promised resurfaced in his mind. Could he have made her happy? Could she have made him happy? All the while Georgia would suffer poverty and ruin. Oh! How strange this world worked! Georgia was bursting with joy, joy at being with him. But then his sins returned to haunt and remind him of his crimes.

“Georgia, my love, I have a confession. I don’t know how to say it. I have done—”

She silenced him with a kiss. Whatever he needed to say they would have the rest of their lives to say it. Her fingers graced over his coat, enjoying the feel of the fabric as she thought about how wonderful it would be to remove. Every one of her senses was on fire and she was glad, she wanted to remember every second for the rest of her life. Georgia won him over, he would eventually tell her about the murders and pray that she would forgive him. For now, though, he would feed his desire for love.

Rossignol’s lips traveled to her jaw and then slowly to her neck. Her gasp made him hungry for more, almost delirious for it. She went weak in his arms, but he held her close as he suckled the flushed skin of her neck. Her breath hitched before he brought forth the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. A deep moan erupted from Georgia, sending a jolt of electricity through him. He fought back his urge to rip her gown off, he fought all the painful urges to love her body completely. With a deep, and shaky breath, he ceased his movements, no longer dragging his tongue against her soft flesh. He rested his face against the curve of her neck, feeling her quivering in his arms.

“My darling, it is taking every bit of my strength to keep from removing your dress and loving every centimeter of your body this moment. We should return to the ball and announce our engagement.” Every nerve in his mismatched body was screaming for her. 

“Can’t we stay like this?” She asked breathlessly. “We could run from here tonight and marry. Forget the rules and decorum. We’ll exist in our own world.”

Good God! How perfect her plan sounded. This had been his plan for the mate that never was. He was going to take the creature made for him to South America to dwell forever in the wilds. But that was his plan for a creature unfit for humanity. Georgia was altogether different; she was from a world he longed for. He needed to protect her and cherish her in her world, not steal her away. The suffering he would endure to see her content and happy was beyond comparison. He would not see her struggle in the wilderness when he knew she would not survive it.

Rossignol moved and kissed her forehead softly, stealing the scent of her hair and sealing it away in his deep vault of memories. She was immortal in his mind, forever frozen like the image of a princess clad in pink and gold. An announcement of their engagement would make him an honest and honorable man and a creature worthy of love.

Georgia sighed softly as she realized that he would not concede to her plan. Tears of joy fell from her bright eyes, the creature was quick to wipe them away with tender kisses. She laughed and embraced him once more. “Okay, my love, lets—”

A great shrill of screams and shrieking erupted from the beyond their sanctuary. Georgia paled, but the creature hardened his face and moved her behind him. “Stay here. Barricade yourself inside. Open the door for no one but me.”

He reached for the door handle just as Georgia went for his mask. She instructed him to put it on once more. He looked at her with sad eyes, her request stung. Then his face changed and he smiled, not a kind smile, but one of understanding. Before he could press the mask against his inhuman face, the door to the study burst open. The volume of shrieking increased tenfold. In the doorway stood a frightened Nettie and a horrified Sir John. 

“You’re like that. . . monster!” Sir John blurted.

Georgia cringed at his words before locking her arm around Rossignol. Both hurt and anger flashed over his face, distorting the image of love and peace she had previously seen. For a moment disgust filled her before the shame of her thoughts brought back her love for him. She clung even tighter to him.

“Sir John,” barked the creature. “What monster? What person looks like me when I am the only one? What has happened?”

Sir John shook his head and backed away briefly. “A man— a creature— he ripped the heart out of that Italian girl you were with earlier. H-he killed someone else. Georgia, we must leave!”

“No! Stay here. Lock yourselves in. Nothing will happen to my bride.” The creature quickly fastened the mask to his face. “When it is safe, I will return.”

The creature stepped out into the hall where people ran past him. Several screamed for him in Italian, but he aggressively encouraged them to flee. Hardly a few feet from the study and Rossignol noticed he wasn’t alone. Sir John secured the study and accompanied Rossignol past the rush of panicked Italians screaming and crying. Whatever had ruined his ball and murdered his guest was still prowling around. It didn’t take them long to find him.

Gathered in a half circle Rossignol’s guests brandished sabers worn with their costumes. They held their weapons pointed at the crouching creature lingering by his two victims: the beautiful Italian and a man Rossignol knew to be in love with her. Seeing the Italian girl’s wide, terrified eyes filled him with immense guilt. She was infatuated with his position and wealth so he allowed her to remain near him until Georgia arrived. She was dead because of him. Would he always condemn the innocent?

Their murderer remained close to them, clutching at his filthy body like a madman consumed by his own demons. Tattered rags clung to his misshapen form. The creature before him reminded Rossignol of his earlier days of utter ignorance. Telltale scars poked from beneath the rags and slashed through his skin like a heedless volcano pouring out its rivers of molten lava. Blond hair decorated his scalp in tufts as most of his hair was burnt off, leaving the skin and hair tough and singed. From behind he was grotesque to behold, but when he turned, even Frankenstein’s creation cringed in disgust. A horrid, thick scar cut from the murderer’s forehead diagonally down to his chin, sealing one of his eyes shut and utterly ruining his lips. Only a few teeth poked out from his mouth and his swollen tongue made it impossible to know if he had more teeth.

He hissed when he saw Rossignol and a looked of bewildered curiosity passed over his sickening features. “Bra-broth-brother,” he stuttered.

The Italians shuddered at the sound of his voice. But for Rossignol, his evening took a much darker turn. Appalling horror pumped through his blood. He knew this man. He knew what he had been and by his wretchedness, he knew what he was. Rossignol wanted to cry and scream. He wanted to run to Georgia and confess that he wanted to elope and flee all of society, but he remained perfectly still, unable to fully understand what he was seeing.

Rossignol took a deep breath. “Felix?”


	14. Chapter 14

What happened when he fled the cottagers that taught him so much? He had run from them, heartbroken, after several blows from an angry Felix. Rossignol had loved them so much, but they reviled and feared him. Every memory of them except the last was perfect and beautiful. Despite his unrivaled fury and pain, he often wished them well. It was from them that he learned to read, write, and speak. He knew humility in the face of poverty. From the De Lacey’s, his little cottagers, he learned about love and beauty. They taught him to love Georgia.

But what happened to them? 

The creature had gone back to that cottage just once to find that they had abandoned the property. Their parting didn’t just tear his heart, it split his soul. It was the first true taste of abandonment and it brought out the darker, wilder side of him. Where had they gone when they fled? Questions burned through his mind. 

As he gazed upon the ruined view of Felix he knew that the De Lacey’s met Frankenstein. But why deny his creation a mate only to turn around and destroy a family? Fury pulsed through him, he fought the urge to lash out in some way.

“Felix?” Rossignol asked once more, suppressing the trembling of his body. The sabers of his Italian guests remained poised, but they were nervous and curious about the murderous monster’s connection to their charming host.

“Where is Agatha, Felix? Where is Eva?” He asked. He dreaded the answer. If the beautiful blond man with soft brown eyes was the wretch now before him, what hope was there for the rest of the family? What happened to his very first dance partner, Eva? Rossignol stood before the Italians, Sir John, and the mangled Felix, grateful that a mask hid his horror. His stomach churned violently.

“A-Agata! Agatha! Agatha!” Screeched Felix. His one eye grew wild and demented. He then began screaming as if terrified. He screeched her name several more times before saying his own name and weeping. As Rossignol watched the shadow of his former benefactor he realized that it was merely a performance. Felix was acting out Agatha’s terror. 

This was Frankenstein’s work, Rossignol wondered why.  Why had he tormented Agatha with the horror of her dead and distorted husband? But this was not her husband, this being was not Felix. This creature was something Rossignol had compared himself to in the past; this abhorrent creature was purely demonic and lacked any notion of love that Rossignol cherished.

The Italians were visibly shaken and disturbed, but none were brave enough to run their sabers through the wretched man. Rossignol turned to Sir John and his muffled voice came out with firm authority.

“Take Georgia to the apartment. Be ready to leave—”

“Gee-oh!” Screamed the marred Felix excitedly. He then lifted his bloody hand to show that the Italian girl’s heart was still clutched in his fingers.

One of the men, Federico, turned and lowered his saber. The night’s cocktails and h'orderves spilled out onto the marble floor. Felix hissed and sputtered.

“Gee-orgee-ah! Ha ha!” He crushed the heart, causing blood to squirt out. Felix then licked the dripping blood.

Rossignol paled beneath his mask, Felix had been sent to kill Georgia and thought himself successful. He could not fathom why his father would go through this much trouble to ruin his happiness. Were they not yet even in their misery? Was Victor so determined to see his creation entirely desolate?

“Take them,” ordered Rossignol, as he grew beyond furious. Unfathomable rage surged through him. “Do whatever you must, but be gone in the hour. Let no one see her.”

“He’ll follow!” Cried Sir John in horror as Felix began consuming the heart he thought belonged to Georgia. “I thought there were similarities between the two of you, but he-he’s a—”

“Monster?” Interjected Frankenstein’s first born. He wanted to vomit at the sight of Felix and he wanted to die as Felix began eating the girl’s heart. “Yes, he is. I doubt he would follow even if he could. He will not leave here unless he is a corpse or in chains, you have my absolute word on that. Now, take my bride from here and deliver her safely home.”

Sir John stepped back. Felix, however, took no notice of him, he was fixated on his meal.

“Tell her that I love her.” Rossignol’s heart felt like glass thrown from the highest window of a building. Everything he’d spend months planning, preparing, and cultivating were over. He could have no rest or content until he knew why Victor wanted Georgia dead. Nothing had ever led Rossignol to believe his father would harm anyone except him. Victor certainly would not have willingly made another being like him, there had to be more to it. Had Henry’s death really been what unhinged Frankenstein? Now, the creature truly did regret the murder, he regretted his passion since it could cost Georgia her life. 

“Go,” he pleaded with hidden tears leaving tracks on his ashen face. The pitiful sound of his own voice broke his heart.

Sir John turned raced back to the study where he pressed himself against the door. “Open the door, we have to go.”

They unlocked the door and Sir John pushed his way inside. He quickly shut and locked the door to the study. “We heard screaming and shouting. Sir John, what is happening? What has happened? Where is Rossignol? Oh, God. Is he hurt?”

Georgia made for the door, but the harsh grip of Sir John stopped her. “Take my cloak and throw it over your head. Do not speak or look around as we leave. Rossignol is dealing with it, but he has ordered us to leave.  _ Now.” _

“No! I have to see him!” Georgia was near to tears and frantic. She made a feeble attempt at fighting Sir John to let her out.

“Listen! He loves you, my dear. He wants you safe. Your father would haunt me from the grave if anything happened to you.”

Sir John then removed his coat and threw it over the sobbing woman. He carefully opened the study door and peered into the hall. They could hear Rossignol speaking to the wretch in French and when there came no response from Felix he switched to German, and then Italian, and then back to English. There was some recognition of English, but Felix just shrieked at Rossignol’s questions, startling Nettie and Georgia. Sir John motioned for both of them to remain quiet and the trio made their way through the overturned ballroom.

Candelabras and drinks lay shattered on the floor. Lost purses with coins scattered around them lay dispersed throughout their path. When they passed the coat room they knew it was hopeless to find their cloaks. Many cloaks remained and they were all strewn across the floor. Even the servants had abandoned the ball at the sound of screaming. They emerged in the cold night and ran for their apartment. They were no longer quiet, just determined to be away from the shrieking of Felix and the cold. When at last they reached the apartment, they saw the local police arriving with their guns ready.

Georgia panicked, she wondered what they would do if they saw Rossignol’s face, but Sir John tugged at her roughly and pulled her into the safety of their apartment. The servants were made awake and panicked when the trio entered and Sir John ordered them to be ready to leave then and there.

In a flurry, frightened servants raced around the apartment, gathering their belongings. Delia helped Georgia and Nettie pack their garments and other items. All three grew frustrated that they made themselves so comfortable only to flee suddenly. Sir John sent an older Italian servant for the carriage and gathered his own belongings.

“Your dress, Miss Georgia,” cried Delia as she made to help Georgia out of her gown. 

“We haven’t got time, you silly girl. Get her coat and then pack your own belongings. Ron will be in to get her trunks. Georgia, your letters,” offered Nettie. Rossignol’s letters to her were bound together with a ribbon. Georgia snatched them and held them close to her chest, even going so far as to shoving the letters into her dress and using her coat to keep it in place.

They were finished in thirty minutes but their carriage took an additional fifteen even after they quitted the apartment and crossed over several bridges just to reach the stables. Ron, their older servant who came to Italy with them, rode atop the carriage with Sir John and their driver. Both kept a watchful lookout as they carted off a carriage of frightened women into the night.

In the carriage, the three women huddled together to keep warm. Finally feeling the weight of the evening, Georgia began weeping. “We were together! After all these months, we were reunited and then suddenly we’re parted again. We were going to announce our engagement. Oh, Rossignol,” she wept sadly into Nettie’s arms.

“A girl was murdered, Georgia, at his party. He must see to this. I’m sure he’ll return to you soon. Hold on to the positive that came out of this trip. Remember his love for you until you are reunited once more.” She then smiled. “Does Rossignol have a first name? Also, I stole a deck of cards before we left.”

“Cards!” Delia cried in dismay. “In a carriage? We’ve hardly any light. Miss Georgia is hardly in a state to play cards. Or talk. Nettie, look at her!”

“Hush, Delia. We’ve an empty seat across from us to lay out the deck. Since you object to livening the mood you can deal the first hand.”


	15. Chapter 15

The evening had not gone according to plan. Not even a little. Well, perhaps a little: Georgia agreed to be his wife. She had finally seen what he looked like and didn’t recoil. It was the best thing that ever happened and was ultimately the reason everything went so horribly wrong. Amelia Rizzoli, the beautiful Italian who hovered near him until Georgia arrived, was dead and her father was full of anger and grief; if he saw Felix, he was sure to descend into madness. A special night ended with the murder of an innocent woman, and the arrival of an old benefactor distorted beyond hope. And Georgia was away from him once more. 

Felix was rendered unconscious not long after the police arrived. Several officers fainted at the sight, filling Felix with some strange excitement before being subdued. Unlike Rossignol, Felix savored the attention his grotesque form was receiving. Before Felix was taken away, the officers bound him in more chains than was necessary. Rossignol was sure Felix was now chained to a wall in a damp cellar hidden in one of the old buildings past the prison and away from the public. 

Nothing seemed to work when he spoke, Felix understood nothing but Agatha, whom he mocked and imitated, and Georgia, whom he believed was dead by his hands. The only thing Rossignol did manage to accomplish from the night was raising the curiosity and suspicion of nearly everyone he came in contact with. If not for his friendship with the captain of the police force he was sure things would have been far worse for him. They questioned his relationship with Felix: how did they know each other and for how long? Rossignol lied to them and claimed that he hadn’t seen Felix in eight long years. How could he tell anyone that he had lived in this cruel world for only three years? Or that what he assumed was his birthday was five days ago. To the Italians, he knew Felix, his wife, Agatha, and their daughter, Eva, eight years ago. There was no one to contest his statement. And he was just as clueless as everyone else about Felix’s mission.

That didn’t stop the horde of questions. Was Amelia targeted because of her close proximity to Rossignol or was Georgia’s name simply mentioned around her leading to a mentally deranged Felix to assume she was his target? Witnesses didn’t see him until he attacked her. Given that she stood close to a servant’s entrance, they believed he had been hiding there. Every staff member and servant of the hall would be questioned in the morning if not that very evening. A beautiful night had unraveled so horrendously. But as it stood, Rossignol was only accused of hiring a servant that either didn’t like him or had a grudge against Georgia. 

Felix would be executed, Rossignol had no doubt about this, there was nothing that could be done for him. Rossignol’s only fear was that they would discover Felix’s origin and his as a result. Would they come for him? Would he be strung up for slaughter? Or was his mind merely being cruel to him?

Rossignol sat in his small, inconspicuous apartments several streets from the inn where he housed Georgia. It was modest, he merely slept there. No one ever visited him, not that he would let them in. It was commonly believed by the locals that he was a man of mystery, and perhaps he was, but he coveted his privacy. Privacy kept him safe from rejection, kept the Venetians from fearing him and rioting. Privacy enabled him to envision a future with Georgia, the only downside was the unbearable loneliness, only Georgia was the cure to such an agonizing existence.

The apartment boasted three rooms: a tiny parlor where he took his meals— the only place the servants were allowed, a washroom, and his bedroom. In the parlor was a collection of upholstered chairs and a sofa built for two, a carved, circular table that would be sent to Georgia’s home as soon as he could arrange it, and several oil paintings. A large blue and gold rug brightened the parlor bringing the room to life.

In the washroom sat a tub full of warm water. During the unexpected events of the night the few servants he employed made sure he had a bath ready, it was the last thing he expected, but the first thing he needed. Rossignol striped down the layers of clothing and folded each garment as neatly as he could over a small chair in the washroom. This certainly was not the apartment expected for a man of his wealth, but he was new to money and his living quarters went beyond anything he needed or desired.

Standing naked in the warm light of several candles and lanterns, Frankenstein’s scarred creation stepped into the tub and sank into the water. A bath could undo any ailment and release the stress acquired over the past few days. He rested his head against the rim of the tub and let the water ease his troubles.

This was how he had woken in such a strange world. The first thing he felt was the copper sheeting of the womb that birthed him, followed by the cold slime of the water that delivered the charge that brought him to life. But the tub didn’t protect him, or maybe it had in those few minutes before he took his first breath. The rush of air from his first breath was like trying to clear a room covered in years of dust. The first layer was gone, but nothing seemed any cleaner. It hurt so much for him to breathe, but then it felt great. It felt new.

From the tub, he had opened his eyes and first gazed upon the dreary delivery room. Nothing made sense, nothing seemed right or wrong; it just  _ was.  _ His gaze then turned to the sweat soaked father he had come to loathe. Victor made less sense than the rest of the room. But in the beginning, Rossignol had no questions for he had no understanding. At first, Victor seemed relieved and amazed, but such a strange birth had taken its toll on his creation and rendered the creature unconscious. Victor, believing that his creation died, was then able to understand the horror of his deeds and came to be grateful the creature was dead. Fate, however, would not be kind or forgiving to Victor’s arrogance.

Fate intervened and Rossignol once again found himself gazing around his birthing room. Pulling himself from the tub was different now than it was then: it had been harder. He discovered quickly that his body knew what to do and how to move. Fingers grasped the edges of the tub and pulled him forward. He was as ungraceful in his movements as he could ever be. The process was beyond exhausting, and his sensations had been severely overwhelmed in the beginning. When he finally left the tub it felt like freedom, his mind was bent towards his creator passed out on the floor. The memory of it was hazy and difficult for Rossignol, but he recalled the look of abject horror and disgust Victor displayed when he came too. Those few moments between them had sent Rossignol fleeing in fear as well.

After all of that, why would Victor make another being more terrible looking and wild? What madness had Victor descended to that would compel him to show Agatha her destroyed husband?

Rossignol, finished with his reverie, sat further in the tub, his knees came up out of the water and he cringed at the sight of them. They were a different hue than his arms; his limbs were from different donors. Did his torso and head once share a connection? He wondered if Georgia would be disgusted, his dark thoughts compelled a frustrated groan from him. He desperately needed her approval and love. He needed her more than he needed food for his belly or shelter over his head. Although she was safely out of Venice on her way back to Geneva, part of her remained with him. He returned to the ball once the police concluded their questions for him and found that her mask remained behind. It sat staring at him from across the tub atop a cabinet.

The pink, white, and gold mask watched him as he bore holes into it with his own gaze. He imagined her green eyes staring at him. Her soft, ruddy lips smiled at him from beneath the nose of the mask. The taste of her mouth still hung on his lips and in the solitude of his bath he wept grievously. His body burned with longing and he lamented his loss. Georgia’s skin pressed against his was enough to kill him and if he wasn’t with her soon, it would. He could still feel her lips against his; the feeling of his large hand pressed to the small of her back sent shivers down his own spine.

Rossignol clutched as his body and imagined her arms around him, but then he came into contact with the raised scar along his shoulder blade. The creature then stretched himself in the tub. Scars and discoloration marred his body, contorting it beyond the known beauty of many. From the scar circulating him like a necklace came another scar that descended down his chest and torso. The scar ran the length of his body, ending at the base of the now wilting flesh between his legs. Before he could stop it, the creature burst into tears as a wave of anger compounded him. 

Rossignol then stood from the tub, unable to gain any comfort from it. He dressed himself quickly and snatched Georgia’s mask as he hurried to his room. On his nightstand was her only note to him. Along with superior hearing, his father also endowed him with superior eyesight. Even in the dark of the impending Venetian winter, he could read her words over and over again. Doing so, however, did not bring him the comfort he thought it would. It served only to make their separation more anguishing.

 

_ Are you my poet? _

 

Yes! He cried again and again. Rossignol went to crush the note to his chest, but remembered what he had done to the snowdrops so long ago and stopped. His passion would be his undoing. Instead, he gently kissed the letter before setting it atop the pillow next to his. On top of the letter, he placed Georgia’s mask and stared at it until his heavy eyelids demanded to rest. 

“I love you,” he whispered into the darkness.


	16. Chapter 16

 

The uproar over Amelia’s murder was far greater than the uproar over William Frankenstein’s. Their differences were great: one was a young boy, the other, a beautiful and desirable woman; one was allegedly by the boy’s fair-haired nanny while the other was carried out by a grotesque monster. Perhaps they weren’t all that different? Men were tossed out of the courtroom of Felix’s trail almost as soon as they entered. Rossignol struggled against them as he made his way to the tumultuous room. With great difficulty, he managed to keep his mask on.

The chamber rose several stories above Rossignol almost like a theater and housed angry spectators eager for the court to arrive at a verdict, even when nothing had yet been discussed. In the center of the cylindrical chamber stood Felix, or what was left of Felix, hissing and spitting at the angry crowd. Priests and other clergymen sat a safe distance above the madness, watching the spectacle with grim faces. Felix, had, at some point, shredded his clothes, forcing many women to flee in disgust. He was undoubtedly a monster. Victor was careless in his construction. Rossignol found him to be revolting. None of the pieces that brought this new form of  Felix together seemed to match: one arm was bigger than the other, his chest was flat, and his belly was big. The skin discoloration was obvious.

Rossignol was led to the witness stand that sat elevated, but close to the caged Felix. He prayed that Felix would not call him "brother" in front of the court, it would be his own death sentence. Once seated, Rossignol scanned the room, he found that he had allies in the musty, damp chamber. In the many months he’d spent creating this facade, he became a beacon of generosity and compassion. The spectators were not so overcome with bloodlust that they forgot to offer him encouragement. 

“Signor Rossignol,” started the judge as he stared down the chamber at him. “State your full name.”

He understood Italian better than he thought he would, but a translator who spoke French sat near him regardless. “My name, your honor, is Gabriel Rossignol.” His first name was something dear and private to him. Exposing it to such a large crowd made him feel exposed and weak, not unlike his first few days alive in such an unforgiving world. An angry, plump woman was one of the first humans he had ever come into contact with and her first reaction had been to shriek as she chased him from her house. Her scream riled the villagers to chase him away in his poor, famished state. A repeat of that incident was not something he wanted.

Beneath the scrutiny of the Italian locals, Rossignol thought back to Justine and what she faced during her trial in Geneva. Had she been afraid? If he could go back and change what he caused, he would. Rossignol would restore her life if it were but that simple. But as anguish and regret threatened to overturn his calm testimony he thought back to the reason why he had chosen the name Gabriel. Rossignol often thought of himself as the fallen angel, the abomination doomed to crawl the earth, unloved and alone. Meeting Georgia allowed him to see himself as something more heroic, noble. He could not fail her or his namesake, a voice from God to the teachers of humanity. He wanted benevolence and compassion, and above all, love.

Below him, Felix snarled and spat, effectively bringing Rossignol back to the grim scene around him.

“Was Signorina Amelia Rizzoli attending your ball when she was murdered?” Asked the judge. Rossignol answered affirmatively. “Why did you invite her to this ball? Were you not the man she was entrusted too?”

Interesting question to ask a witness. “Your honor, Signorina Rizzoli’s father was one of the first men to hire me to salvage his lost goods when I came to Venice. His kindness enabled me to make a name for myself. I invited his family to the ball, Signorina Rizzoli was the one who came. She was not entrusted into my care. Signor Morea, the other victim, was her chaperone. Both were in my company. Signorina Rizzoli believed she was the guest of honor, she was not, however, she was an honored guest.”

Rossignol watched the feather of the judge’s quill flick as he jotted down notes upon an unfurled parchment. Apart from the perpetual hissing of Felix, the room remained quiet. “Then Signorina Rizzoli was not the person for whom the ball was thrown? Was she a decoy for your English girl, ah, Signorina Georgia Daniels?”

Rossignol’s eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed beneath his mask. He felt sick for Amelia and distraught that his character was being questioned. It would be simple for him to just leave. He could kill them all and be out the door in minutes if he so chose. But he wanted to be better for Georgia. And himself. And for William, Justine, and Henry. Rossignol spoke slowly so that he maintained control of his passion. 

“The ball was not for Signorina Rizzoli, but I was not a singular host: I did not ignore her. We danced a waltz before I joined several men in attendance for coffee and conversation. Signorina Rizzoli accompanied me. I was then informed that my guest of honor had arrived. I dismissed myself from their company and from Signorina Rizzoli. I was away from Signorina Rizzoli for at least two hours where I was seen in the company of Signorina Daniels. I did not use Signorina Rizzoli in any capacity other than conversation.”

Above him, the judge nodded and a chorus of murmuring rose around him. The harsh crack of the judge’s gavel striking his podium startled Rossignol and frightened the spectators into silence. “Signor Rossignol, your account of the evening has been confirmed by your many attendants.”

Rossignol felt the muscles in his body begin to relax. The chamber seemed less dark and suppressing. But this interrogation needed to end. Above him, he noticed Signora Pausini. She smiled down at him, a mild assurance, but then his sharp eyes noticed a subtly stitched pattern in her cloak. He smiled to himself. Signora Pausini had taken the time to embroider a snowdrop into her dress. She was a saint and a true friend.

“A letter was sent to you shortly after the departure of the English guests you were entertaining. Signor Lafoy sent the magistrate letter as well. These letters have been in our keeping until today. Signor Lafoy’s letter exonerates you from any concern this court may have felt towards you. You are free to go, Signor Rossignol. We are sorry for the loss you have felt in this tragedy. Return these letters to Signor Rossignol,” finished the judge as he handed a cluster of letters to one of the men next to him. 

Rossignol rose from the uncomfortable wooden chair and descended the steps, passing by Felix as he did so. Felix hissed at him but thankfully said nothing. He hadn’t reacted to the mentioning of Georgia’s name. Was he aware that he would die soon? How could he be so enraged that he would murder someone and then act pacified and ignorant? Rossignol found it disturbing and unnerving.

He ascended the steps of the cylindrical courtroom and stopped at the judge’s level where he received his stolen letters. The plump aid handed Rossignol the letters, but not before asking him another question.

“Where is the translator, Bernardo Carlozzi? He was summoned but never appeared. Do you know where he is?”

Rossignol thought for a moment. “I haven’t seen or heard from him since the ball. I sent Signorina Daniels away, terminating my need for his services. Why?”

The plump aid leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You helped my aunt by hiring her to make those gowns and your suit. She’s alive again. I thank you for that, Signor. We believe Signorina Daniels was the target, but Signorina Rizzoli’s murderer confused them. You’ve been cleared, Signor. I suggest you return to your intended and keep her safe.” His warning rang clear.

As the aid left Rossignol clutching the letters he felt his world sink in, like he was stuck in quicksand, there was no way out. Bernardo had been missing for a least two weeks. Overcome with madness, Rossignol ripped through the letters. Sir John’s letter was dated as November 24th; one from Georgia was dated for November 30th, and December 5th; there were no more. Three letters were all that was sent to him. His breathing quickened and a sheen of sweat formed beneath the mask on his brow. Georgia’s handwriting was the same as it always was, flowing and long.

 

_ December 5th, 18—  _

 

_ My dearest poet, _

 

_ I am in utter agony since we parted. My feelings for you have not wavered, but I miss you terribly. Sir John informed me that the trial will be held soon and he has sent a letter as testimony. I sent one at his encouragement. Please, write me. I am in agony; I do not know if you are well. _

_ I love you. I truly, deeply, love you. Return to me, my poet. _

 

_ With all my love, _

_ Your Georgia _

 

Rossignol’s heart soared and heaved, causing his stomach to lurch. He wanted to know the outcome of Felix’s trial but he was desperate to get to Georgia. He prayed that Bernardo hadn’t gotten to her, he prayed that Bernardo had nothing to do with Amelia’s death. A seething rage blinded his vision but drove him from the courthouse to his apartment.

When he reached his apartment he flung himself into the parlor and slammed his door shut. His tall form leaned against the door. He had to control his temper.  _ Think, you fool.  _ Why would Bernardo want to kill Georgia? Why did he hate the English? Rossignol berated himself for not investigating Bernardo further. How could he have left the most precious creature in the world in the care of someone planning to murder her? Wood splintered as Rossignol’s fist smashed into a small table by his door. A feral scream crawled out of his throat and pierced the cold air of the apartment.

Did Bernardo know what he was? How did Bernardo know Frankenstein? 

He left his flower in the care of another man. If anything happened to her he would never forgive himself.

Rossignol observed his apartment, taking a mental note of what belonged to him. Most of his possessions were on their way to Georgia’s home in Geneva. Snatching his beloved copy of  _ Paradise Lost, _ Rossignol ran to his room to dress and pack for his journey to Geneva.

The notes that Georgia and Sir John sent to him were tucked safely in his cloak. He counted his bank notes several times over, it was a delightful shock that the ball hadn’t drained him. On the contrary, the bank notes, along with the rest of his property he sent to Georgia, still left him with a significant amount money. Georgia would live like a queen, he mused. 

Rossignol pulled his cowl over his head and slung his bag over his shoulder. He reached for the knob of the door only to stop at the sound of rapid beating. He sighed and slowly opened the door, or tried to. Signora Pausini barged into his apartment as if it were hers and started in on him in a wave of Italian. His clever mind reeled; her speech was far too rapid for his mind to translate. Dropping his bag, Rossignol reached out to grasp her shoulders.

_ “Mi dispiace, Signora Pausini. Non capisco. Ricorda, parlo solo un po 'di italiano.”  _

She paused a moment, contemplating his words. Taking a deep breath, she spoke slower. “You should not go without saying goodbye. You are with warm  _ Italians,  _ not cold Frenchmen. That man was hanged, and they want Bernardo now. A mess! Ah!” She exclaimed as she dropped a bag at his feet. Bending over, she stooped to open the bag and pushed off his efforts to assist her.

Out of the bag she brought forth a beautiful cloak. It was made of thick, weather-sturdy material and was the perfect addition to his wardrobe. A dark hood was sewn in and was large enough to completely hide his face; also adorning the cloak were a series of pockets stitched on both the outside and inside. The cloak had the look and feel of something new, something gentlemanly. Signora Pausini insisted he take it. 

“When did you make this, Signora Pausini?” He was shocked and touched. Since he earned his wealth, he had made diligent efforts in putting his money towards generosity, he never expected anything to be given to him in return. Tears slid down his concealed face, he would have to wipe them away later.  _ “La ringrazio molto, Signora Pausini.”  _

She shook her head in agitation. When he took the cloak from her hands he was unable to stop her as she reached up and pulled his mask free. He instantly felt naked, the mortification made him blanch. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to run, not without knocking her over. He waited with heavy anticipation for her screams, but she only grinned at him with motherly affection.

_ “Tu sei brutto, ma avete un buon cuore.  _ _ I tuoi amici ti amo. La signorina Daniels ti ama.”  _

“Did you call me ugly?” He asked incredulously. Amusement was his prevailing emotion. Rossignol found that he enjoyed her honesty. Signora Pausini then pulled forth a bundle of letters written in Georgia’s hand and addressed to him. “Georg—” he inhaled the scent lingering on the letters. They smelled just like her.

_ “Biscotti per signorina Daniels,”  _ she added when she pulled a parcel from the bag, the last item, he hoped.  _ “Signorina Daniels è troppo piccolo. Dille di mangiare.”  _

Signora Pausini put the parcel back into the bag and handed Rossignol the additional luggage. She smiled and returned his mask. Rossignol studied the cloak before untying the rag of a cover he was wearing. He kept the thick bundle of dark grey cloth wrapped around his neck. It was too familiar and comforting to relinquish. He felt safe in it. He cast a sorrowful glance at the old cloak he’d stitched together from various textiles he discovered along his journey. In a way the mantle reminded him of himself: a tattered mess put together from scraps of other people’s lives and narratives. It was painful to leave behind and at the same time, he felt that the dense weight of his grief and anger would remain with it. Atlas finally set the world on its pedestal.

Warmth engulfed him as he fastened the cloak and secured Georgia’s letters in his breast pocket. He threw both bags over his head and one shoulder. Signora Pausini’s face contorted with grief he never knew he could instill.

She took a deep breath and lines of her older face creased as she spoke slowly. “You do not look like an angel, but you have brought hope and help to people. A true messenger of benevolence, Gabriel. Farewell,” she then stepped aside so that he could leave behind his home of nine months.

Rossignol secured his mask and drew up his great hood. He bowed low to Signora Pausini, the gesture brought her to tears. Leaving Venice was difficult, much more than he ever anticipated. He could not compare it to the loss of the De Laceys, and certainly not to his leaving of Georgia, but still, it hurt. In Venice, he had made friends and a home. He earned money and made a name for himself, literally. Well, Gabriel was given to him by Signora Pausini. She was mistaken, she was the angel, not he. In this flooded Italian city, he had learned the true kindness of people and their eagerness to repay the favor. But these memories would be the beginning of many more.

 

****

 

After a day of hard travel and switching horses, Rossignol finally came to a cave. He unburdened his horse and set food out for the beast. The muscles in his legs groaned. He supposed that he could have stayed at an inn, but now that he was no longer around familiar faces, he feared what people might do when they beheld his form. His wealth could carry him far, but if he was spied and deemed the monster Frankenstein believed he was, all would be lost. But Rossignol decided it was neither productive nor healthy for him to dwell on such thoughts.

At the center of the cave, he pulled several logs and dry leaves he concealed in one of his bags and began a small fire. At the beginning of his life, he happened upon an abandoned fire and learned how to keep it going, but it had been a long time before he learned how to make it himself. In those days, he was a sad combination of innocence, ignorance, and naivety.

Once he was comfortable upon the ground, using a bag as a pillow, he pulled Georgia’s notes from his breast pocket. His touch was gentle, almost as if he was holding her and not her letters.

 

_ My beloved Rossignol, _

 

_ Not a moment has gone by when I haven’t thought of you. I’m only permitted to think of you when I’m am alone, though— I become rather flushed when you appear in my mind. We must be reunited, urgently. I miss the taste of your lips, they were my companions when you kept yourself hidden. Your lips are a lost melody taunting me. I know it is imprudent, but I need your lips on my skin. _

_ I need you; your smile, your laughter, your touch. I miss your voice whispering to me in the dead of night. I miss the taste of vanilla we shared in the shadows. I know I cannot hold on much longer. I need your hands on me, touching me, holding me. I know this is inappropriate, Sir John would be severely angry with me, but I must speak the thoughts burning my mind. I long to touch you and see the rest of you. I’m sure it frightens you, but please know that I love you. I long to make you happy, to love you so much you forget all the pain you’ve ever experienced. Do not delay, return to me, my darling. _

 

_ With all my love,  _

_ Georgia _

  
Rossignol brought the letter close to his face and breathed in her scent. After several deep, shaky breaths, he began to relax. He reread the letter until he was finally able to sleep. He would be up at first light to push his horse as hard as he could to reach Georgia. For her, he would not delay. 


	17. Chapter 17

Rolling hills gave way to a dense forest and a road leading into it. Leafless tree branches reached out to each other from across the street, tangling themselves together. The light of the day was grey and cool, and far too ominous for his liking. The wind whipped at Rossignol and brought with it the subtle sounds of small animals scavenging for the last of their winter store.

As he traveled the road towards Lake Geneva, Rossignol could not suppress the choking thickness he felt in the air. Excitement, not anxiety, was what he should have felt. The rhythmic beating of his heart was slow and poignant, like a warning. Dread came over him the further he went and the closer he came to Georgia’s home.

Sir John’s estate was a mile ahead. Rossignol was exhausted and his horse was near dead from exertion, but he pressed on. When, as last, he was only a few yards from the estate a servant came out to greet him.

“Monsieur Rossignol! Come rest. Miss Georgia told us you were coming. There is food for you and your room is made up.” The servant moved to take Rossignol’s cloak, but the creature back away from him.

“Where is Georgia? Why is she not here to greet me?” Panic welled up in him. Georgia wasn’t pressed to any of the windows that faced him nor was she in the foyer beyond the open doorway of Sir John’s estate. 

The servant looked to Rossignol in confusion. “Miss Georgia was called back to England. Her case was settled. They won’t be back ‘til after winter, I’m afraid. But worry not, Sir, you are welcome to remain here for the season. Sir John was quite adamant that we look after you.” Once again, the servant moved to take Rossignol’s cloak. 

Georgia wasn’t here. Now he understood his feelings. Fate was twisted and cruel. The mask he wore hid the rage on his face; it would not do to frighten the servants when he still had so much to do in order to be with Georgia. Once he got her back, he was never letting her go again, lest she be lost to him forever. “When did they depart?”

He sounded pitiful. No, there was no use in hiding his heartbreak and utter disappointment. Rossignol wanted to be with Georgia. He wanted to cry and scream. Against his will, his body trembled.

“A week to the day, Sir. Come inside, Sir, it is chilly and you’ve had a difficult journey.”

Rossignol nodded and handed the reigns of his horse to the servant who looked dumbly at the horse. The creature took his bags and passed the threshold of the house. Everything seemed so familiar and yet so foreign. Many a night he had spent stalking the building, finding paths to get close to Georgia or to escape her. It seemed different in the grey light of day. A fire roared near the entrance of the parlor where a piano stared longingly at him. His heart heaved as he imagined her fingers gliding over the keys. He missed her music. He missed her.

Rossignol stopped his ambulations near the door when he realized he had tracked in a good deal of mud. He was filthy and tired. “I will rest the night. Can you have my clothes washed?” He asked the servant who abandoned the horse to someone else. 

“Where are you going, Sir?” This was unexpected. Sir John told the servants to house Rossignol, that he was to be married to Miss Georgia and that he was a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t rush off when winter is coming. They wait and are waited upon unless hunting for sport. Rossignol was wild.

“To England. To Georgia. I need rest and food,” he declared before traveling up the stairs to the washroom. The servants balked at such behavior, how did he know where he was going? Several of the servants followed behind, not saying a word, but watching dumbly. “Will you prepare a hot bath for me?” He asked the first girl. She flushed, nodded and disappeared to prepare the water.

This was new and thrilling. His actions were unconventional and it made the servants almost giddy to see to their chores and gossip. Rossignol stopped once again and turned to the servants trailing behind them and asked for his clothing to be delivered to Georgia’s room where he would be waiting. No one questioned how he knew where her room was. This man had been in the house before. He must have been the one Georgia was sneaking food too. A scandalous tale indeed!

Rossignol reached Georgia’s room and turned the small, round knob before pressing the door open. It was just as he remembered it. A subtle canopy was draped over her floral printed bed sheets. Next to her bed was a small, square nightstand and sitting atop it was a well-read copy of  _ Sense and Sensibility. _ Did she read anything else? He mused. His fingers gently caressed the book before he opened the cover. Between the hardcover and the first page of the book was a pressed snowdrop, wilted and slightly discolored, but gently sheathed a wax paper. His gift to her.

He brought the withered blossom to his face and kissed it. “I will not dally too long, my love. We’ll be together again, I promise.”

A knock sounded at the door, prompting Rossignol to return the flower to its home. He was delicate with the door handle, he was in a sacred space, touching what he knew Georgia had touched. An older man stood at the door with two of Rossignol’s bags and behind the man stood a woman with his final bag. Rossignol opened the door wider and let them in. 

“Claudia is still working on your bath, Sir. Gustav and Anna are fixing you something to eat. Can we get you anything else while you wait? Your mask is a bit dirty, Sir. May I clean it for you?” 

Georgia accepted his appearance, and Nettie had grown to live with it, but Sir John’s initial reaction was enough for him to know it would be a long time before strangers would be able to look upon him without fear and disgust. The mask didn’t just hide his features from Georgia’s caretakers, it kept a certain mystery around him at all times, like a mantle, a shield. It was vital since his mission to obtain a communion with humanity was far from over. “I thank you, kind sir, but my masks are treasured possessions and I see to them myself. Your aid is invaluable. If you’ve nothing to see too, I would like to learn about the staff.”

Rossignol listened to every word the older servant said. Most of the servants had come from England with Georgia but many contemplated returning when they heard she was to be married. All seemed to love Georgia, and especially delighted in her music. Most of the servants from England had been with either Georgia or Sir John for many years, with the exception of Delia, who joined the staff shortly before Georgia’s father became ill and passed away.

“She never mentioned much about her father,” Rossignol stated sadly at the conclusion of the servant’s narrative. But then again, he thought, he had yet to tell her about his father.

The servant stood when Anna brought Rossignol his food and set it on the small table he had used during his nightly rendezvous with Georgia. “Well, there was the scandal, of course. Miss Georgia lost a good deal of friends and lo! One would have thought she was a servant or a vagabond the way people looked at her! Her damnable aunt made sure she was turned away and those who didn’t turn her away were then themselves turned away. Sir John spared her by removing her. He felt he owed it to her, given that he is the reason her life was ruined.”

This confused Rossignol more. He had but an inkling of what the issue was, but was too ignorant in the ways of man to feel confident enough to ask. Instead, he nibbled on the cold roast and delighted in the tea. He held no aptitude for French wine, but English tea was made for him.

“Lord Benedict Daniels was a great man. No one even knew. . . . Not sure when he did. Not many people liked it, not that it was their business. He was a free man when it started. And Sir John loved Miss Georgia as if she were his own. Promised her father he’d look after her. But still, their indiscretion nearly ruined that girl. But my, I prattling on with a gentleman! Claudia will be in presently. Thank you, Sir. If I may, congratulations on your engagement, Miss Daniels is a fine woman!” He stood, visibly worn by having spoken so much. He left Rossignol to finish his meal and returned only to help Claudia bring the water for a bath. 

Rossignol remained in the bathroom for a long while, mulling over every bit of information he recently learned. His brain. however, would not work properly, he was far too tired. When he was clean he returned to Georgia’s room and threw himself onto her bed. Her scent still lingered in the sheets and he wrapped himself in it. It was as if she were with him, protecting him with her loving embrace. He managed to fall asleep in the late afternoon, waking when his laundered clothes were brought back to him. It wasn’t until the early the next  morning that he realized what his brain had kept secret from him during his bath. The realization made sense— perfect, horrifying sense. Within an hour of waking in a state of panic, he was on a horse fleeing wildly across Europe to the English channel against the advice of Sir John’s staff. Rossignol wasn’t risking his life, he was saving Georgia’s.


	19. Chapter 19

Georgia groaned loudly. An intense pain shot through her head, rendering her other senses useless, all she felt was blinding agony from her forehead. She attempted to open her eyes but saw nothing. Panic settled over her and she felt like she was spinning, but she was positive that she was not moving. Her fingers stretched and flexed and sought some understanding of where she was. Ridged fingertips felt the cold and smooth surface beneath her. Was she on a table? Her entire body was too numb to tell. The pain in her head was unbearable and Georgia quickly forgot what she was searching for.

“Don’t move,” instructed a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

“Wh—” she mumbled. One more attempt to open her eyes resulted in her knowing that she could, in fact, see nothing. To her horror, she soon realized that she could no longer hear. Sleep took her in its comforting embrace. time and reality no longer existed to her.

***                                  

 

Why was it cold? Georgia woke with a jolt, but her startled body was still unable to move much. Her surroundings gradually became clearer, she gasped in exaltation that her sight remained intact, but it was short lived. Instead, her mouth opened in horror at what lay above her.

Rope and wire lined the ceiling, chains wove around the shafts and beams that held the structure together. A butcher’s cleaver gleamed in the candlelight around the room. Georgia felt her heart pulsating in her ribs as the reality of her nightmare set in. Her eyes darted around and then down at herself. No wonder she couldn’t move, her arms were pinned to her sides and she was strapped to a table.

Before she could think she began screaming. Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears, a strange echo of the woman she was. Hot tears fell from the corner of her eyes; the pain in her head returned with a vengeance, but she continued to scream and call for help to anyone who might be near.

The door to the room holding her swung open and brutal waft of cold air followed a man inside. From where Georgia lay she couldn’t see who it was, but she called for help regardless.

“No one is coming, Georgia,” stated the man. She knew that voice, but from where?

“Where am I?” Her panicked voice trembled. Green eyes darted around the room and noticed a board covered in odd mathematical equations. All of it seemed foreign and complicated to her, it only served to increase her fear. But hidden in the corner of the room, next to a stack of books and pinned to a board was a drawing of someone. “Rossignol. . . .”

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. If you hadn’t— if you hadn’t loved that abomination, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Georgia attempted to crane her head around to see the man, but she was only met with the sight of another table. On it was another person, a woman whose features were hidden beneath a sheet. “What is this place? How do you know Rossignol?”

The man scoffed. “I made him,” he spat. “He is a menace and I must live with the crime of creating him. . . and the other one.”

The sheet over the woman was then ripped away. On the slab was a corpse of someone she did not recognize. “This,” said the man, “was the wife of Felix, the man— the abomination— that was supposed to kill you. He failed and now I must be the one who carries out the deed. I’ve created life, but I have never destroyed it. Trust me, this is not what I want. I am not doing it to hurt my creation. It must be done to save Elizabeth and my father. I’m sorry, Georgia.”

“Victor?” That voice was so familiar, it had yelled at her enough times that she should have guessed sooner. “Victor, please don’t do this. If they’re in danger, we can get them help. We’ll go to the police. Sir John—”

“Can do nothing!” Screamed Victor. Georgia could finally see him. He was wild, with a starved look in his eye and a complexion that almost made Georgia sick for him. Victor grabbed that table where the ice cold Agatha lay, and shoved it forward. The table screeched as it moved and broke a wooden chair when it came to a halt. 

Another table stood on the other side of Agatha. There was no sheet covering the person on the table and Georgia was given no opportunity to prepare for the sight of Deliah’s glazed over, lifeless eyes. Her servant was pale grey, her vitality was as a fading dream, but her youth was frozen in time. She stared blankly back at Georgia. 

“Victor!” She shrieked as tears burst like a river through a dam. Her body acted on its own accord and she began shaking violently. “Let me go! Please!”

Victor seemed to gain some control over himself. His face relaxed and shushed Georgia gently and smoothed her hair. He was tender with her and caring. “I don’t want to kill you, but your aunt, she helped me realize that I have too. You were going to marry that  _ monster _ .” Victor’s face screwed up in disgust. He turned green at the implication and understanding. “I put him together from the rotting corpses of convicts and killers, Georgia. You wanted to mate with that abhorrent creature.”

Georgia’s brain immediately began sifting through everything she had ever heard or seen about Rossignol. Her mind fought with her heart, she fought against what she understood was the truth. But her mind hurled more at her and thoughts of her estranged aunt demanded her attention. “W-why would my aunt want me dead, Victor?” There had to be a reason, but it alluded her.

He scoffed once again and withdrew from her. “That is what you focus on. . . . Your aunt killed your brother. She did it with poison. Your grief-stricken parents always believed she had a hand in it, they were right of course. Your brother stood in her way to your father’s wealth, just as you do. They cut her out of their lives. Then your mother died and your aunt wanted back into your father’s life. Your father was an idiot, Georgia. Your aunt had him poison over time; subtle hints of this and that so no one would notice. She is a terrible woman and I know that she will kill Elizabeth if I do not deliver your body. When I complete my task, I will be free.” 

Georgia stretched her hands, her bindings were loose, but it would take a great deal of work before she would be free of her restraints. Despite the pounding in her head, she was determined to survive and get away. “How did you did you come to meet my aunt?”

Color drained from Victor’s face. “My creation. She knew about him from Deliah— oh, yes, Georgia. Your servant was not your friend. Be glad her use ran out. Lady Adler has many spies. She learned of him and me. I—” he paused and looked about the room. All the windows were boarded shut. The smell of damp and decay was stifled only because of the winter chill. It was the only way to hide his gruesome work. 

“I haven’t spent anytime recovering,” he continued, pacing around the room as he recounted all that led them to this moment. “I meant to, and at first, I did. Then your aunt found me. She persuaded my father to enlist the help of her physicians, but they pried into my work until madness took me again. If I helped her, the demon would be taken care of, and my family would be safe again.” 

Georgia waited for him to say more. Her movements halted, and she could hear her sweat hitting the table she lay tied too. “Rossignol is not a demon. Please, just listen. Ask him for help and he will come. But don’t kill me, don’t hurt me. Let me help you.”

Instead of abating his anger, Georgia’s supplications only renewed his fury. The reluctance he had about killing her faded. To Victor, she was no longer a fallen English gentry, she was no longer a lady worthy of kind words and respect. She was an animal in a slaughterhouse and her death meant his freedom. Victor approached her, causing her to panic. Her bindings still weren’t loose enough for her to break free. “You cannot help me, at least, not while you live.”

Victor’s voice was oddly calm. There was a feeling of tranquility for him; a sense of nobility. He was saving humanity by destroying his creation’s mate. He was avenging his loved ones. It would not matter the consequences, Elizabeth would forgive him when she understood why. Victor freed the cleaver from its hook and ignored Georgia’s futile, and final hysterical pleas for him to stop. He absently watched as she struggled with her bindings.

“I would prefer,” he started, “if you didn’t move, I want a clean cut. As a mercy, I only want to strike once. If you move too much I will miss and you will feel all of it. Relax, Georgia. That creature will join you in death soon enough.”

“Rossi—” her voice cracked as she screamed in vain. “ROSSIGNOL!” Her lungs burned with her last efforts to get help and free herself. “Oh, God. . . .”

Victor wrapped one hand around the cleaver and lifted it above her. His other hand wound tightly around Georgia’s hair close to her scalp. He pulled her head back so that her neck as completely exposed. She struggled, but his grip only became firmer and more resolute. Saliva sputtered from between Georgia’s teeth as she used what little strength she had left to save herself. The sharp blade seemed to smile down at its prey. Victor took a deep breath, a silence fell on them, time seemed to freeze. Georgia’s heart broke as the cleaver began its fateful descent to end her life. 

As she prepared to meet her end a flash of light blinded her. The thunderous sound of the door being ripped off its hinges caused her to wince and cry out. Next to her, she heard the acute thud of the cleaver as it smashed into the table. A furious roar filled the room.

“FRANKENSTEIN!” Screamed a voice so terrible that Georgia became terrified of its owner. “YOU WILL DIE!” 

Georgia forced her eyes open to find that a large figure had thrown Victor across the room. Frankenstein lay on the floor clutching at his ribs amidst broken glass, books, and the remains of demolished bookshelf. He spat insults at the advancing giant.

“Rossignol!” Cried Georgia. She had never been so relieved or frightened. “Gabriel!”

The giant stopped and turned to her. He was a horrifying to behold. His rage was animalistic and deranged. His face contorted hideously, snatching the breath from her lungs. But when the furious Rossignol saw the fear and dare he think it,  _ disgust,  _ on her face, he calmed his expression. He pushed the anger away to protect her.

She was tied to a table in her filthy, damp undergarments, the sight kept the burning rage in him alive. It was the blood and the horrid stitching of Victor’s attempt to close Georgia’s head wound, and the tracks of tears that broke his heart. She was weak and dirty and weeping at her predicament. From her wailing came a supplication for freedom which he rushed to grant.

The creature ripped away the bindings and lifted her into his arms. Georgia clung to him and wept into his ravenous locks. Her body trembled against her wishes. 

“My love,” she wept. Her sobs became muffled in his embrace. His hands tangled in her hair, he held her close to him.

Rossignol pulled his cloak so that it covered her weak frame. He then lifted her and started towards the broken door frame and towards the horse he had waiting for them.

“You bastard! Elizabeth will not die for you!” Shrieked Victor. He charged at the couple with a knife drawn up. Rossignol quickly dropped Georgia’s feet and blocked the attack, shoving Victor back. Victor cried out in pain as he stumbled back, clutching his side.

Rossignol set Georgia on the ground as gently as he could and pulled his cloak off. He quickly covered her trembling body, before rushing back to Victor. Frankenstein weighed nothing to his creation who was able to lift him several feet off the ground. Veins running along Victor’s temples burgeoned from the stress and lack of oxygen. As his face went from beet red to ashy purple, he tried to speak.

“You threaten my love, Sir. Why should I spare yours?” Spat Rossignol. His full fury burned up at Victor. He wanted to squeeze the life out of Victor. For once, he hungered for the slaughter he knew he would never regret.

“Gabriel, don’t,” pleaded Georgia. Her voice was a gentle tidal wave coming into smooth the battered shoreline. 

Rossignol felt the tension ease from his body. His grip loosened and he dropped Victor to the floor where he coughed and grasped at his throat.

“I’m sorry,  _ mon per neige _ ,” whispered Rossignol. Georgia looked so broken covered in tears and dried blood. Before he ran to her his eyes fell upon Agatha’s corpse. Felix and Agatha would have to be avenged and if Eva and her grandfather were still alive, he would see to it that they were well cared for. Although they spurned him, they were his first family and taught him so much about life and family.

The creature bent down to Georgia, tightened his cloak around her and pulled the hood over her head. “I’m sorry, my love. Let us go and save them.” He picked her up and took her to the wagon waiting outside. Seeing Georgia bundled up sent Nettie into a frenzy. 

Rossignol helped Georgia onto the wagon and instructed Nettie to keep her as dry and warm as possible. He then left the women and returned to the terrible cottage of unimaginable terror. Victor still lay on the floor attempting to catch his breath. He rolled over and stared at the floor before Rossignol grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “Give me a sheet to cover Agatha.” His voice was cold and unflinching.

“I didn’t do that to her,” gasped Frankenstein. Fury radiated from Rossignol while maddened fear seeped from Victor.

Rossignol released Victor once more, his gazed propelled his father to search quickly. “Elizabeth will die if I don’t give Georgia’s aunt what she wants.” Victor pleaded.

“ _ Father,  _ this all ends tonight.” He was in no mood to talk. Once Victor had a sheet, Rossignol snatched the cloth and proceeded to wrap Agatha up. He kissed her forehead before covering her for the last time. With his task completed, Rossignol moved like a ghost to the table Victor had Georgia tied to. The cleaver still sat on the table, waiting for the chance to taste blood. Rossignol reached out and picked it up, he turned to Victor and held it out for him to take. “You know what to do.”

“No,” Victor hissed. “I won’t.”

Rossignol advanced him and towered over him. “Moments ago you were willing to murder, an innocent woman— _my— my Georgia!_ Take it and do it.” Rossignol grabbed Victor’s hand and pressed the handle of the blade to his palm. “Now, do it, _sir_.”

He did not wait for Victor to decide. Instead, he took Agatha’s body into his arms and carried her out to the wagon and placed her in the back. When he returned to the abhorrent cottage he found Victor preparing his last gruesome task. Rossignol went around the room taking up candles as he did so. Flames licked the loose papers and books piled together near the back of the cottage. He used his sleeve to wipe away the equations written in chalk before ripping the boards free and casting them into the fire. Before the fire consumed the cottage, Rossignol pulled Victor free and threw him into the back of the wagon. They raced from the burning building as quickly as they could through the cold and muddy road. 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Whitehall Manor was the type of building Eva’s mother would talk about wistfully when she reminisced about her glory days in France. But the manor was greater than the images Agatha filled her daughter's head with. The furniture was upholstered in velvet the color of country wine, accented with polished bronze. Great carpets from India lined the first floor of the manor and old Scottish rugs covered the stairs to the second floor. There was something in every room, not that Eva went to any of the other rooms. She and her grandfather were always escorted around the house but seldom went outside. A grand estate also served as their prison.

They were kept warm, fed, and clothed; it could have been worse in reality. No, it was worse. Her mother was gone, they got to say goodbye at least. Her father was, well, she didn’t know exactly what he was, just that he wasn’t himself anymore and never would be again. She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to him. One evening he was just gone from the manor, as well as one of the large men who kept them locked away. There was no pomp and circumstance, people would just come and go.

Eva was old enough to understand that she was in danger and her age was the blessing that kept her grandfather alive. She was old enough and smart enough to understand that their benefactor was really their malefactor. She was old enough to understand that her defiance agitated her captor. The only thing she wasn’t old enough to understand was how they could get away.

After nearly a year of being kept in the manor that lost its appeal too quickly, Eva met Elizabeth Lavenza and Alfonse Frankenstein. She did not, and still did not, understand her connection to them. Elizabeth was kind but bitterly sad. Her eyes were consistently red, it made a stark contrast to her paling skin. Eva was sure that she would be the next person to die. Alfonse, however, was a survivor. He was someone who had seen too much death, someone meant to endure it. What, then, was Eva?

Alfonse spoke with Eva at every moment they were allowed to be around each other and helped her learn English. Despite the pain he shared with Elizabeth, Alfonse maintained his pleasant disposition, always looking forward to the freedoms they were seldom granted. Only he seemed to bring a smile to Elizabeth’s face. At least, while they were together they could forget their suffering.

“Miss Eva!” Cried Lady Adler as she rushed into one of her many rooms. Eva shuddered at the sound of her name and the sight of an exalted Lady Adler. “Splendid news! Frankensteins, you will be leaving soon. Miss Eva, I will keep you on as a servant. Oh, but your grandfather will be going to the poor house.” Each statement made was with a smile that made Eva shiver. She was excited to declare each of their futures, a queen designated the lives of her subjects.

“How is that ‘splendid’?” questioned Eva incredulously. Her accent was thick with a French air, but she would not shirk from her determination to challenge her captor, even at the humiliation she received at her malefactor’s hands.

Lady Adler’s smile faltered and her emerald eyes flared for a moment. “Eva, dear, talk like that is was got your mother killed.” She adjusted her dark, curly hair. “It is  _ splendid _ because Victor Frankenstein has secured my future. He’ll be bringing me my prize soon. Ooh!” She sucked in a pinched breath as her excitement was causing her to lose control of her tight restraint. The animation brought life in her harsh features and caught Eva by surprise and sent a new wave of dread through her fellow prisoners.

She clapped her hands together and demanded they follow her into the Blood Room, so named for the violent red that adorned its walls. A sofa sat at one end of the room and around it were several small round tables. Lady Adler sat on the sofa and directed all her captives to sit on the floor. Eva’s grandfather struggled and were it not for Alfonse, the elder De Lacey would not have been able to do it. Alfonse sat close to De Lacey while Eva sat apart and a foot from the frightened Elizabeth. 

Lady Adler adjusted the collar of her dress and then pulled the cuffs of her sleeves down, closer to her hands, She then rested her hands on her lap in the manner after that of high-ranking women. Eva watched her hands and wondered if she did anything with them. They were clean, physically, but Eva knew they were as red as the room. Blood practically dripped from them. The girl could not stop from staring in disgust.

“Eva,” continued Adler. “You do not know Georgia, but she has grown into quite the woman, beautiful really. Such a trusting woman; it was rather fun to ruin her in the eye of the public. And it was a wonderful revenge to utterly destroy my brother’s name. Well,” she added, acknowledging the facts she had forgotten, “he ruined himself. Smearing the Daniels name; father would have been so furious. A degenerate hiding in a false union! I admit, it was a shock to me when I learned that he romanced Sir John Lafoy. Scorned lovers do love to talk, especially if it protects their dirty little secrets.

“Did you know, Eva, that Georgia fell in love with the hideous creature that once lived outside your simple home? She yearned so much to be special. Playing the piano wasn’t enough, she took up her country singing to woo her audience. She tried so hard. Then she falls in love with a ghastly creature who makes his fortune in salvaging! Victor’s firstborn is quite the crafty entrepreneur and he settles his sights on my niece!” A fit of laughter escaped her. “Every time I think about it I can’t help but laugh. I ruined her life and she finds some horrid wretch who gives her the world only for her to lose it all again. Divine justice. Tell me, Miss Eva, you’ve seen the creature, is he truly as terrible as I’ve heard?”

A lump formed in Eva’s throat. After months of Adler saying the same things to her, Eva had become desensitized to her rants. Multiple lamentations were issued at every bit of news about Georgia, Adler blamed her for every woe her family sustained. But from where Eva sat, Adler seemed to have everything she could ever want. The only thing Lady Adler’s rants managed to inspire in Eva was utter loathing and disdain. She crinkled her nose and looked to her grandfather. “Kindness is never ugly.”

Adler scoffed. Eva would be disciplined soon enough. Her mind would be turned from thoughts and towards obedience. “Monsieur De Lacey, I thought your family were once Bourgeoisie, but it seems you’ve raised a simpleton. I suppose that is how you ended up in a burnt down cottage.”

“Lady Adler, I’ve got your wine, ma’am.” A meek servant entered the room carrying a tray with a small glass of amber liquid. Her hands trembled as she approached her mistress and she kept her eyes down while she walked.

Adler’s smile soured for a moment. “Denise, you are relieved from your position in this house. Deliver me my wine and then be gone. Eva will take your place.” Her smile reappeared when Denise placed the tray on a table next her now former mistress. Denise then fled the room with tears falling, either by relief or fear.

“Mr. Frankenstein will be in shortly with my prize and then all this dreadfulness can be behind us.” Adler then brought the wine to her lips. The chalice holding the liquid was perfectly polished silver except for the oily fingerprint facing Eva. It was a blessing for Denise that her mistress hadn’t seen it and a greater blessing that she was no longer her servant. Adler sipped the wine and grinned with satisfaction. She took several more sips, her face flushed from the liquid.

“Mr. Frankenstein, ma’am,” introduced an elderly servant from the other end of the room. Adler demanded that he enter at once. Her eyes flashed to Elizabeth’s pale, horrified face briefly before watching as Victor entered carrying in a bloody bag. He was pale and grim and the grievous looks from Elizabeth and his father nearly broke his resolve.

Each step Victor took was undeniably painful, his ribs burned and the arm he held out his package to Adler, threatened to quit on him. “I have what you want. Delivered as promise. Let us go.”

Adler threw back her head and laughed wildly. “I do hope! Mr. Frankenstein, that she didn’t cry and whine too much. Her sniveling has always been so contemptible and unladylike. Barbaric! Give it to me. I want to see her.”

Elizabeth wept horribly, Alfonse merely stared at the stranger his son had become. When he gave Adler the bag he pulled away from her and rushed to Elizabeth who shrank at Victor’s touch. They struggled a moment before Victor managed to restrain Elizabeth. He was grateful she wasn't too strong, the bruises from his fight with Rossignol launched another violent attack against him. Every inch of him hurt and the less Elizabeth struggled, the less he felt inclined to scream in pain.

Lady Adler untied the bag but was far too preoccupied with her gruesome prize to notice three people walk into the Blood Room. Eva, however, did notice. Her eyes lit up as she saw the only familiar face of the three and it was the only one of its kind. Eva smiled widely, she hadn’t forgotten her dance with the creature or his sorrowful speech about not having a family. It was impossible for her to ever forget him; every decision her father has made was out of fear of this odd looking man. If only her father had not dragged them away from the creature, perhaps he and her mother would still be alive.

Behind her, Lady Adler gasped in disgust while Alfonse began laughing. “What is the—” She was then made aware of the three strangers. In the bag was Deliah’s head, Adler dropped it, causing it to roll towards a frantic Elizabeth who was swept up into Victor’s sore arms.

“Father, come,” instructed Victor as he reached out to grab onto Alfonse’s arm. 

“Do you think any of you will be able to get away?” She laughed. “I hadn’t planned to kill all of you— it is a rather messy endeavor— but if I must, then I shall. At least, Mr. Frankenstein brought his beautifully hideous monster. Oh, the things he’s done to you all,” she mused spitefully. “Especially Georgia.” She was aglow with marvel at her plan. She would shoot them with the gun hidden her dress and cut them up. It would be gory, but how she did miss those days. One had to keep up appearances while one hunted for meat.

Georgia would die, not so she could obtain her niece’s wealth, but because she hated her. She hated her own brother. But truthfully. she loved killing, she loved the games she played until her prey begged for death. Having a family made the game fun. torturing strangers just didn’t have the same appeal. The people now gathered around her were no longer strangers to her, they were all connected to Georgia.

“Yes, aunt,” declared Georgia. She was bundled in Rossignol’s cloak and used him as a support to approach her aunt. “And the only monster in this room is you. You’re already dead. Sometimes you can’t trust the people in your household.” Her eyes rested on Deliah’s decapitated head.

Adler snorted. “Poison,” she concluded as she took a whiff of her drink. She smile curtly and reached into her dress pocket. “Fair enough.” The pistol was a terribly wonderful companion and a perfect executioner. It came free from her pocket, but as she lifted her arm to take aim she felt herself falling backward. Her ears were filled with mad shrieking.

“Enough of this!” Alfonse Frankenstein had his hands wrapped around Adler’s neck. “You destroyed my son, you destroyed Eva’s family!” His grip around her tightened.

Victor leapt for his father while Rossignol reached for the pistol Adler dropped. He pulled it away from the scuffle and returned to Georgia. “She is dying, father, let her go,” he pleaded. Frightened by the scene, Eva ran towards her old friend and hid behind his large frame. Each moment became painfully slow as Eva watched Alfonse lose himself to a fury he’d kept a secret.

Alfonse was red, tears streamed down his face. Here was a man broken by unimaginable loss, reconciling the evils in the world that were both created by man and born to it. Beneath his fingers he felt the desperate, fiery pulse of Adler fighting to stay alive and if he were as attuned to all of his senses as his son’s creation, he would have been able to feel the flicker in Adler’s pulse telling him that the poison her servant had given her was doing its job. All he could see was red from heartbroken rage. He’d spent months with this vile woman, watching her taunt Eva and verbally abuse Elizabeth. Her jabs at Victor facilitated his decline into haunted madness. All this was meant to end in the death of a girl who had done no one any harm. 

He pulled her neck towards him and then used his momentum to thrash her head against the ground. As his grip around Adler’s neck tightened, Alfonse’s face grew deep red and the vein running along his temple and forehead burgeoned warningly. “This woman is responsible! She murders innocent people for fun.” Once again, Alfonse lifted her by the neck and prepared to thrash her head against the ground. 

Before Alfonse could deliver another blow, Rossignol grabbed him by the arm and ripped him away, leaving Alder to gasp and cough, clutching at her neck. “Monsieur, no. Please,” he begged with his watery eyes. The fury he held towards Victor was lost and forgotten, it was replaced by compassion and sorrow. “Do not kill her, you are not a murder. Her death will not bring you peace, I know this.”

Alfonse’s lip trembled. “You— you’re the one.” Alfonse’s eyes swept over Rossignol’s face, understanding the torment it had brought to his family. Knowing what he was and seeing him so unmistakably alive filled the elder Frankenstein with a new sense of anguish. Rossignol, however, did not let this rejection wound him as it would have in the past; he held onto Alfonse. 

“I have hurt you, Sir, unimaginably. You are an innocent victim of my crimes, and I can never make up for it, but I can keep you from feeling what I feel. Come, Monsieur, come away from her. We must all be gone from her. Please?” He beseeched, gently tugging Alfonse away.

A croaked laugh filled the room and eyes were once more set upon Adler. “Not— ah— dumb creature after— ah— all.” A fit of coughing ensued as Rossignol pulled Alfonse to Eva and her grandfather. Georgia quickly reached out to her beloved with her trembling, pale hands. “But foolish— eh. You planned to kill Elizabeth if you never got your—” 

Adler never finished her statement. She never finished anything else. For what seemed like eternity, the world stood still. Dust and gunpowder swirled around itself like a slow-moving whirlpool. For a moment, they all watched the dust while it remained visible, thinking of the irony of how beautiful it appeared. Silence followed the staccato shot of the gun, which had the power to snuff out even the dripping sound of snow melting outside the window. It was powerful enough to stop the heart and restart it on a new beat. It was also powerful enough to ensure that Adler would never speak again. Her body hit the floor with a soft thud, one that made her death seemed almost beautiful and delicate. The carpet of her precious “Blood Room” soaked up the dark liquid pouring out of her neck. A soft groan passed her lips and forced the scene to move once more.

“Oh, good God, Elizabeth! What have you done?” 


End file.
